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PATHWAY 

TO 

WESTERN LITERATURE 



BY 

NETTIE S. GAINES 

Teacher in City Schools of 
Stockton. California 



Cover Design by W. S. RICE 



Stockton, California 

NETTIE S. GAINES 

All rights reserved 



1 



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Copyright 1910 by 
NETTIE S. GAINES 



(gCl.A268816 



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CONTENTS 



PAGE 

A Startling Adventure — 

J. Ross Browne 1 

Brown Wolf — 

Jack London 9 

Columbus (Poem) — 

Joaquin Miller 16 

The Passing of the Spanish Home — 

Helen Hunt Jackson 18 

Indian Basketry — 

Ella Higginson 22 

An Engineering Triumph — 

Dan De Quille 30 

Nobility (Poem)^^ 

Richard Realf 38 

A Unique House^ — 

W. C. Bartlett 39 

In Blossom Time — 

Ina Coolbrith 40 

Autumn in Southern California — 

Theodore Van Dyke 41 

Leaf and Blade (Poem) — 

Ina Coolbrith 45 

Ascent of Mt. Tyndall — 

Clarence King 46 

Trip to the Farallones — 

Charles Keeler 53 

The Oaks of Tulare (Poem) — 

Lillian H. Shuey 59 



iv Contents 



PAGE 

From Yuma to Salton Sea — 

George Wharton James 60 

Lincoln, the Man of the People (Poem) — 

Edwin Markham 71 

The Desert's Call — 

Mary Austin 73 

The Great Basin — 

Col. John C. Fremont 75 

The Man of the Trail (Poem) — 

Henry Meade Bland 83 

On an Alaskan Trail — 

Ella Higginson 84 

The Way of the Desert — 

Idah Meacham Strobridge 97 

Heimweh (Poem) — 

Lowell Otus Reese. 100 

San Francisco's Chinatown Before the Earth- 
quake — 
Frank Norris 102 

Adventures of the 'Forty-Niners — 

Wm. Lewis Manly 107 

How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar — 

Bret Harte 113 

The Pearls of Loreta — 

Gertrude Atherton 119 

The Overland Flyer (Poem) — 

Charles Keeler 125 

A Breeze from the Woods — 

W. C. Bartlett 126 

Southern California Before the Boom — 

Theodore Van Dyke 129 



Contents 



PAGE 

The Lure of the Trail — 

Stewart Edward White 139 

Ben Franklin — 

James C. Adams 143 

The Mariposa Lily (Poem) — 

Ina Coolbrith 148 

Thirst of the Donner Party — 

C. T. McGlashan 149 

Starvation of the Donner Party — 

C. T. McGlashan 153 

A Song of Autumn (Poem) — 

Henry Meade Bland 157 

San Gabriel Valley — 

Theodore Van Dyke 158 

The Poet's Wealth (Poem) — 

Richard Realf 161 

The Ascent of Mt. Rainier — 

Ada Woodruff Anderson 162 

To the Pioneers that Remain (Poem) — 

A. J. Waterhouse 178 

The Love Master — 

Jack London 179 

Father Salvierderra's Faith — 

Helen Hunt Jackson 188 

"Two Bits" (Poem) — 

Sharlott M. Hall .' 195 

Ferns and Ferneries — 

Belle Sumner Angler 198 

The Wheat— 

Frank Norris 200 



vi Contents 



PAGE 

Nighttime in California (Poem) — 

A. J. Waterhouse 210 

Son of Copper Sin — 

Herman Whitaker 212 

October Clouds (Poem) — 

Mary B. Williams 221 

Hummers — 

Florence A. Merriam 222 

The Foothills — 

Stewart Edward White 231 

"The Joy of the Hills" (Poem) — 

Edwin Markham 234 

Desert Animals — 

John C. Van Dyke 235 

The Legend of the China Lily — 

Idah Meacham Strobridge 238 



PREFACE 

Western geography and history are slowly but 
surely gaining their rightful place in the public 
school system throughout the country. 

For a number of years the compiler of this book 
has been deeply interested in the literature of the 
West and has directed her efforts toAvard having it 
carried along side by side with the history and 
geography with which it is so closely allied. 

It was, therefore, a source of much gratification 
when James A. Barr, City Superintendent of the 
Stockton schools, suggested that a book be compiled 
composed of extracts from the works of Western 
writers to be used as a Supplementary Reader, for 
she believed that in this way children would not 
only gain power in reading, but that they would 
gradually come to possess a loyalty and love for all 
things Western. 

With this thought constantly in mind, the work 
required to compile such a book has been relieved 
of its arduousness and the task has been one of 
great pleasure and profit. 

It has been the aim to make the collection repre- 
sentative of the coast, full of local color from pio- 
neer days to the present. 

Many short extracts liave been selected rather 
than a few long ones, hoping that a broader field 
may be covered. A small amount of preparation 
by the teacher will enable her to give a setting for 
any selection. This will not be required for all, as 



viii Preface 

a number are complete within themselves. After 
the children's interest in a selection has been se- 
cured, then is the time when the author should re- 
ceive recognition, and every teacher in our schools 
should welcome this opportunity of making the chil- 
dren appreciative of Western writers. 

It has not been deemed advisable to classify con- 
tents, as the book is designed for use in the sixth, 
seventh and eighth grades in connection with the 
history and geography of the West. Thus the 
teacher will use her own judgment as to the best 
means of correlation. 

Before submitting the manuscript of this book to 
the publishers, representative extracts were sent to 
city and county superintendents, as well as to a 
number of teachers, to be passed upon. The com- 
mendations received assure the success of the un- 
dertaking. 

While all extracts are from the works of Western 
writers, yet it is hoped that the appeal of the book 
will not be confined to the West nor even to the con- 
fines of the school room alone. 

The compiler of this book wishes to express deep 
appreciation to the following publishing houses for 
their courtesy in granting certain copyright privil- 
eges: The Macmillan Company for -selections by 
Jack London, Gertrude Atherton and Ella Higgin- 
son; Little, Brown & Company for selections by 
George Wharton James and Ada WoodrufiP Ander- 
son; Harper & Brothers for selections by Herman 
Whitaker and J. Ross Browne; Houghton Mifflin 
& Company for selections by Bret Harte, Florence 
A. Merriam and Mary Austin ; Doubleday, Page & 
Company for selections by Stewart Edward White, 



Preface ix 

Edwin Markham and Frank Norris ; Charles Scrib- 
ner's Sons for selections by John C. Van Dyke and 
Clarence King; Paul Elder & Company for selec- 
tions by Charles Keeler and Belle Sumner Angier, 
and Funk Wagnalls Company for poems by Rich- 
ard Realf. 

Special permission has been granted by the fol- 
lowing persons and to them the compiler is deeply 
indebted also : Charles Keeler, Ina Coolbrith, C. F. 
McGlashan, Lillian Hinman Shuey, Theodore Hit- 
tell, W. E. Bartlett, Theodore Van Dyke, Idah 
Meacham Strobridge, A. J. Waterhouse, Henry 
Meade Bland, Mary B. Williams, Lowell Otus 
Reese, Joaquin Miller, Sharlott Hall; Out West 
Magazine and Pacific Monthly Magazine for illus- 
trations. 



INTKODUCTION 

To present to the yonth of California adequate 
selections from the writings of the best authors of 
the State is a laudable endeavor. I have long hoped 
to see it done. Why should our children's study 
of literature be confined to the works of English 
and Eastern authors to the exclusion of the wealth 
of prose and poetry produced in the West. Cali- 
fornia has made itself felt with dignity and power, 
as well as native force and originality, in the litera- 
ture of the English-speaking world and it is appro- 
priate that its literary contributions be placed be- 
fore the future citizenship of the State. 

As I have constantly affirmed, so I sincerely be- 
lieve that California has a wonderful destiny as 
the location of the highest civilization yet to be 
born, and this destiny is clearly foreshadowed in 
its literature. Its geographic isolation, its topo- 
graphic cosmos, the climatic and scenic environ- 
ment it affords, the pioneer basis of its civilization, 
all point to this exalted destiny. 

It is well, therefore, that its youth should be 
made familiar with what is their grave responsibil- 
ity and glorious opportunity. 

Mrs. Gaines has exercised great care in making 
the selections of this volume, and that many of 
them are my own especial favorites that I had the 
pleasure of introducing to her does not lessen my 
gratification in seeing them gathered together in 
this form. 



xii Introduction 

The book as a whole will delight and interest as 
well as inform and inspire the children who read 
it. Other volumes undoubtedly will soon follow 
and thus the mine of the rich literary treasures of 
California be at least indicated to those to whom it 
is a natural inheritance. 

GEORGE AVHARTON JAMES, 
Thanksgiving Day, 1909. 

Pasadena, California. 



1 



A STARTLING AD^^NTURE 

By J. Ross Browne 

DESCENDED several of these shafts rather to 
oblige my friend the Judge than to satisfy any 
curiosity I had on the subject myself. This thing 
of being dropped down two hundred feet into the 
bowels of the earth in wooden buckets, and hoisted 
out by blind horses attached to '' whims," may be 
very amusing to read about, but I have enjoyed 
pleasanter modes of locomotion. There was one 
shaft in particular that left an indelible impression 
upon my mind — so much so, indeed, that I am as- 
tonished every hair in my head is not quite gray. 
It was in the San Antonia, a mine in which the 
Judge held an interest in connection with a worthy 
Norwegian by the name of Jansen. As I had trav- 
eled in Norway, Jansen was enthusiastic in his de- 
votion to my enjoj^ment — declared he would go 
dowTi with me himself and show me everything 
Avorth seeing — even to the lower level just opened. 
While I was attempting to frame an excuse the hon- 
est Norwegian had lighted a couple of candles, giv- 
en directions to one of the *'boys" to look out for 
the old blind horse attached to the *Svhim,'' and 
now stood ready at the mouth of the shaft to guide 
me into the subterranean regions. 

*'Mr. Jansen," said I, looking with horror at the 
rickety wooden bucket and the flimsy little rope 
that was to hold us suspended between the surface 
of the earth and eternity, ' ' is that rope strong ? ' ' 

''Well, I think it's strong enough to hold us," 



2 Pathway to Western Literature 

replied Jansen; ''it carries a ton of ore. We don't 
weigh a ton, I guess. ' ' 

"But the bucket looks fearfully battered. And 
who can vouch that the old horse won't run away 
and let us down by the run ? ' ' 

' ' Oh, sir, he 's used to it. That horse never runs. 
You see, he's fast asleep now. He sleeps all along 
on the down turn. It's the up turn that gets him. ' ' 

''Mr. Jansen," said I, "all that may be true; 
but suppose the bucket should catch and drop us 
out?" 

"Well, sometimes it catches; but nobody's been 
hurt bad yet ; one man fell fifteen feet perpendic- 
ular. He lit on the top of his head. ' ' 

"Wasn't he killed?" 

"No; he was only stunned a little. There was a 
buzzing about among his brains for a few days 
after; he's at work down below now, as well as 
ever. ' ' 

"Mr. Jansen, upon the whole I think I'd rather 
go down by the ladder, if it's all the same to you." 

"Certainly, sir, suit yourself; only the ladder's 
sort o' broke in spots, and you'll find it a tolerably 
hard climb down; how so ever, I'll go ahead and 
sing out when I come to bad places. ' ' 

With this the Norwegian disappeared. I looked 
down after him. The shaft was about four feet 
square ; rough, black and dismal, with a small flick- 
ering light, apparently a thousand feet below, mak- 
ing the darkness visible. It was almost perpendic- 
ular; the ladders stood against the near side, 
perched on ledges or hanging together by means of 
chafed and ragged-looking ropes. I regretted that 
I had not taken Jansen 's advice and committed my- 



A Startling Adventure 3 

self to the bucket ; but it was now too late. With a 
hurried glance at the bright world around me, a 
thought of home and the unhappy conditions of 
widows and orphans, as a general thing, I seized 
the rungs of the ladder and took the irrevocable 
dive. Down I crept, rung after rung, ladder after 
ladder, in the black darkness, with the solid walls 
of rock pressing the air close around me. Some- 
times I heard the incoherent muttering of voices 
below, but could make nothing of them. Perhaps 
Jansen was warning me of breaks in the ladder; 
perhaps his voice was split up by the rocks and 
sounded like many voices ; or it might be there were 
gnomes whisking about in the dark depths below. 
Down and still down I crept, slower and slower, 
for I was getting tired, and I fancied there might 
be poisonous gases in the air. When I had reached 
the depth of a thousand feet, as it seemed, but 
about a hundred and forty as it was in reality, the 
thought occurred to me that I was beginning to 
get alarmed. In truth I was shaking like a man 
with the ague. Suppose I should become nervous 
and lose my hold on the ladder? The very idea 
was enough to make me shaky. There was an in- 
definite extent of shaft underneath, black, narrow 
and scraggy, with a solid base of rock at the bot- 
tom. I did not wonder that it caused a buzzing of 
the brain to fall fifteen feet and light on top of the 
head. My brain was buzzing already, and I had 
not fallen yet. But the prospect to that effect was 
getting better and better every moment, for I was 
now quite out of breath, and had to stop and cling 
around the ladder to avoid falling. The longer I 
stood this way the more certain it became that I 



4 Pathway to Western Literature 

should lose my balance and topple over. With a 
desperate effort I proceeded, step after step, cling- 
ing to the frail wood-work as the drowning man 
clings to a straw, gasping for breath, the cold 
sweat streaming down my face, and my jaws chat- 
tering audibly. The breaks in the ladder were get- 
ting fearfully common. Sometimes I found two 
rungs gone, sometimes six or seven, and then I had 
to slide down by the sides till my feet found a 
resting place on another rung or some casual ledge 
of rock. To Jansen, or the miners who worked 
down in the shaft every day, all of this, of course, 
was mere pastime. They knew every break and 
resting place ; and besides, familiarity with any par- 
ticular kind of danger blunts the sense of it. I am 
confident that I could make the same trip now 
^dthout experiencing any unpleasant sensation. 
By good fortune I at length reached the bottom of 
the shaft, where I found my Norwegian friend and 
some three or four workmen quietly awaiting my 
arrival. A bucket of ore, containing some five or 
six hundred pounds, was ready to be hoisted up. 
It was very nice-looking ore, and very rich ore, as 
Jansen assured me ; but what did I care about ore 
till I got the breath back again into my body? 

''Stand from under, sir," said Jansen, dodging 
into a hole in the rocks ; ' * a chunk of ore might fall 
out, or the bucket might give way." 

Stand from under ? Where in the name of sense 
was a man to stand in such a hole as this, not more 
than six or eight feet square at the base, with a few 
dark chasms in the neighborhood through which it 
was quite possible to be precipitated into the in- 
fernal regions. However, I stood as close to the 



A Startling Adventure 5 

wall as was possible without backing clean into it. 
The bucket of ore having gone up out of sight, I 
was now introduced to the ledge upon which the 
men were at work. It was about four feet thick, 
clearly defined, and apparently rich in the precious 
metals. In some specimens which I took out myself 
gold was visible to the naked eye. The indications 
of silver were also well marked. This was at a 
depth of a hundred and seventy-five feet. At the 
bottom of this shaft there was a loose flooring of 
rafters and planks. 

''If you like, sir," said Jansen, "we'll go down 
here and take a look at the lower drift. They've 
just struck the ledge about forty feet below. ' ' 

"Are the ladders as good as those above, Mr. 
Jansen?" I inquired. 

"Oh yes, sir; they're all good; some of the low- 
er ones may be busted a little with the blastin ' ; but 
there 's two men down there. Guess they got down 
somehow. ' ' 

' ' To tell you the truth, Mr. Jansen, I 'm not curi- 
ous about the lower drift. You can show me some 
specimens of the ore, and that will be quite satis- 
factory. ' ' 

' ' Yes, sir, but I 'd like you to see the vein where 
the drift strikes it. It's really beautiful." 

A beautiful sight down in this region was worth 
looking at, so I succumbed. Jansen lifted up the 
planks, told the men to cover us well up as soon 
as we had disappeared, in order to keep the ore 
from the upper shaft from tumbling on our heads, 
and then, diving down, politely requested me to fol- 
low. I had barely descended a few steps when the 

massive rafters and planks were thrown across 
2 



6 Pathway to Western Literature 

overhead and tlms all exit to the outer world was 
cut off. There was an oppressive sensation in be- 
ing so completely isolated from the outside world — 
barred out, as it were, from the surface of the earth. 
Yet, how many there are who spend half their lives 
in such a place for a pittance of wages which they 
squander in dissipation ! Surely it is worth four 
dollars a day to work in these dismal holes. 

Bracing my nerves with such thoughts as these, 
I scrambled down the rickety ladders till the last 
rung seemed to have disappeared. I probed about 
with a spare leg for a landing place, but could 
touch neither top, bottom nor sides. The ladder 
was apparently suspended in space like Moham- 
med's coffin. 

''Come on, sir," cried the voice of Jansen far 
down below. "They're going to blast." 

Pleasant, if not picturesque, to be hanging by 
two arms and one leg to a ladder, squirming about 
in search of a foothold, while somebody below was 
setting fire to a fuse with the design, no doubt, of 
blowing up the entire premises ! 

''Mr. Jansen," said I, in a voice of unnatural 
calmness, while the big drops of agony stood on 
my brow, "there's no difficulty in saying 'Come 
on, sir ! ' but to do it without an inch more of ladder 
or anything else that I can see, requires both time 
and reflection. How far do you expect me to 
drop?" 

"Oh, don't you let go, sir. Just hang on to that 
rope at the bottom of the ladder, and let yourself 
down. ' ' 

I hung on as directed and let myself down. It 
was plain sailing enough to one who knew the 



A Startling Adventure 7 

chart. The ladder, it seemed, had been broken by 
a blast of rocks ; and now there was to be another 
blast. We retired into a convenient hole about ten 
or a dozen paces from the deposit of Hazard's 
powder. The blast went off with a dead reverbera- 
tion, causing a concussion in the air that affected 
one like a shock of galvanism ; and then there was 
a diabolical smell of brimstone. Jansen was 
charmed at the result. A mass of the ledge was 
burst clean open. He grasped up the blackened 
fragments of quartz, licked them with his tongue, 
held them up to the candle, and constantly ex- 
claimed: "There, sir, there! Isn't it beautiful? 
Did you ever see anything like it? — pure gold, al- 
most — here it is ! — don 't you see it ? " 

I suppose I saw it ; at all events I put some speci- 
mens in my pocket, and saw them afterward out in 
the pure sunlight, Avhere the smoke was not so 
dense ; and it is due to the great cause of truth to 
say that gold was there in glittering specks, as if 
shaken over it from a pepperbox. 

Having concluded my examination of the mine, 
I took the bucket as a medium of exit, being fully 
satisfied with the ladders. About half way up the 
shaft the iron swing or handle to which the rope 
was attached caught in one of the ladders. The 
rope stretched. I felt it harden and grow thin in 
my hands. The bucket began to tip over. It was 
pitch dark all around. Jansen was far below, com- 
ing up the ladder. Something seemed to be creak- 
ing, cracking, or giving way. I felt the rough, 
heavy sides of the bucket p^-ess against my legs. A 
terrible apprehension seized me that the gear was 
tangled and would presently snap. In the pitchy 



8 Pathway to Western Literature 

darkness and the confusion of the moment I could 
not conjecture what was the matter. I darted out 
my hands, seized the ladder and, jerking myself 
high out of the bucket, clambered up with the agil- 
ity of an acrobat. Relieved of my weight, the iron 
catch came loose, and up came the bucket Hanging 
and thundering after me with a velocity that was 
perfectly frightful. Never was there such a sub- 
terranean chase, I verily believe, since the begin- 
ning of the world. To stop a single moment would 
be certain destruction, for the bucket was large, 
heavy and massively bound with iron, and the 
space in the shaft was not sufficient to admit of its 
passing without crushing me flat against the ladder. 
But such a chase could not last long. I felt my 
strength give way at every lift. The distance was 
too great to admit the hope of escape by climbing. 
My only chance was to seize the rope above the 
bucket and hang on to it. This I did. It was a 
lucky thought — one of those thoughts that some- 
times flash upon the mind like inspiration in a mo- 
ment of peril. Afewmore revolutions of the'Svhim" 
brought me so near the surface that I could see the 
bucket only a few yards below my feet. The noise 
of the rope over the block above reminded me that 
I had better slip down a little to save my hands, 
which I did in good style, and was presently landed 
on the upper crust of the earth, all safe and sound, 
though somewhat dazzled by the light and rattled 
by my subterranean experiences. — From *^ Adven- 
tures in the Apache Country/' 



Brown Wolf 9 

BEOWN WOLF 

By Jack London 

THE Klondiker's face took on a contemptuous 
expression as he said finally, ' ' I reckon there 's 
nothin' in sight to prevent me takin' the dog right 
here an' now." 

Walt 's face reddened, and the striking-muscles of 
his arms and shoulders seemed to stiffen and grow 
tense. His wife fluttered apprehensively into the 
breach. 

''Maybe Mr. Miller is right," she said. ''I am 
afraid that he is. Wolf does seem to know him, 
and certainly he answers to the name of 'Brown.' 
He made friends with him instantly, and you know 
that's something he never did with anybody before. 
Besides, look at the way he barked. He was just 
bursting with joy. Joy over what? Without doubt 
at finding Mr. Miller." 

W^alt's striking-muscles relaxed, and his shoul- 
ders seemed to droop with hopelessness. 

"I guess you're right, Madge," he said. "Wolf 
isn't Wolf, but Brown, and he must belong to Mr. 
Miller." 

"Perhaps Mr. Miller will sell him," she sug- 
gested. ' ' We can buy him. ' ' 

Skiff Miller shook his head, no longer belligerent, 
Hut kindly, quick to be generous in response to gen- 
erousness. 

"I had five dogs," he said, casting about for the 
easiest way to temper his refusal. "He was the 
leader. They was the crack team of Alaska. 



[Copyright by The Macmillan Company, 1906.] 



10 Pathway to Western Literature 

Nothin' could touch 'em. In 1898 I refused five 
thousand dollars for the bunch. Dogs was high 
then, anyway; but that wasn't what made the 
fancy price. It was the team itself. Brown was 
the best in the team. That winter I refused twelve 
hundred for 'm. I didn't sell 'm then an' I ain't 
a-sellin' 'm now. Besides, I think a mighty lot of 
that dog. I've ben lookin' for 'm for three years. 
It made me fair sick when I found he 'd ben stole — 
not the value of him, but the — well, I liked 'm. I 
couldn't believe my eyes when I seen 'm just now. 
I thought I was dreamin'. It was too good to be 
true. Why, I was his wet-nurse. I put 'm to bed, 
snug every night. His mother died, and I brought 
'm up on condensed milk at two dollars a can when 
I couldn't afford it in my own coffee. He never 
knew any mother but me. 

I\Iadge began to speak : 

"But the dog," she said. "You haven't consid- 
ered the dog. ' ' 

Skiff Miller looked puzzled. 

* * Have you thought about him ? ' ' she asked. 

"Don't know what you're drivin' at," was the 
response. 

^ ' Maybe the dog has some choice in the matter, ' ' 
Madge went on. "Maybe he has his likes and de- 
sires. You have not considered him. You give him 
no choice. It has never entered your mind that 
possibly he might prefer California to Alaska. You 
consider only what you like. You do with him as 
you would with a sack of potatoes or a bale of 
hay." 

This was a new way of looking at it, and Miller 



Brown Wolf 11 

was visibly impressed as he debated it in his mind. 
Madge took advantage of his indecision. 

* ' If yon really love him, what would be happiness 
to him would be your happiness also, ' ' she urged. 

Skiff Miller continued to debate with himself, 
and Madge stole a glance of exultation to her hus- 
band, who looked back warm approval. 

"What do you think?" the Klondiker suddenly 
demanded. 

It was her turn to be puzzled. ''What do you 
mean ? ' ' she asked. 

''D'ye think he'd sooner stay in California?" 

She nodded her head with positiveness. "I am 
sure of it." 

Skiff Miller again debated with himself, though 
this time aloud, at the same time running his gaze 
in a judicial way over the mooted animal. 

"He was a good worker. He's done a heap of 
work for me. He never loafed on me, an' he was a 
joe-dandy at hammerin' a raw team into shape. 
He's got a head on him. He can do everything but 
talk. He knows what you say to him. Look at 'm 
now. He knows we 're talkin ' about him. ' ' 

The dog was lying at Skiff Miller's feet, head 
close down on paws, ears erect and listening, and 
eyes that were quick and eager to follow the sound 
of speech as it fell from the lips of first one and 
then the other. 

"An' there's a lot of work in 'm yet. He's good 
for years to come. An' I do like him." 

Once or twice after that Skiff Miller opened his 
mouth and closed it again without speaking. Final- 
ly he said : 

"I'll tell you what I'll do. Your remarks. 



12 Pathway to Western Literature 

ma'am, has some weight in them. The dog's worked 
hard, and maybe he's earned a soft berth an' has 
got a right to choose. Anyway, we '11 leave it up to 
him. Whatever he says goes. You people stay right 
here settin' down; I'll say 'good-bye' and walk off 
casual-like. If he wants to stay, he can stay. If 
he wants to come with me, let 'm come. I won't 
call 'm to come an' don't you call 'm to come back." 

He looked with sudden suspicion at Madge, and 
added, "Only you must play fair. No persuadin' 
after my back is turned." 

''We'll play fair," Madge began, but Skiff Mil- 
ler broke in on her assurances. 

''I know the ways of women," he announced. 
' ' Their hearts is soft. When their hearts is touched 
they're likely to stack the cards, look at the bot- 
tom of the deck, an' lie — ^beggin' your pardon, 
ma'am — I'm only discoursin' about women in gen- 
eral." 

'*I don't know how to thank you," Madge quav- 
ered. 

''I don't see as you've got any call to thank 
me," he replied; ''Brown ain't decided yet. Now, 
you won 't mind if I go away slow. It 's no more 'n 
fair, seein' I'll be out of sight inside a hundred 
yards. ' ' 

Madge agreed and added, "And I promise you 
faithfully that we won't do anything to influence 
him." 

"Well, then, I might as well be gettin' along," 
Skiff Miller said, in the ordinary tones of one de- 
parting. 

At this change in his voice, Wolf lifted his head 



Broivn Wolf 13 

quickly, and still more quickly got to his feet when 
the man and woman shook hands. He sprang up 
on his hind legs, resting his fore paws on her hip 
and at the same time licking Skiff Miller's hand. 
When the latter shook hands with Walt, Wolf re- 
peated his act, resting his weight on Walt and 
licking both men's hands. 

"It ain't no picnic, I can tell you that," were 
the Klondiker's last words, as he turned and went 
slowly up the trail. 

For the distance of twenty feet W^olf watched 
him go, himself all eagerness and expectancy, as 
though waiting for the man to turn and retrace 
his steps. Then, with a quick, low whine, Wolf 
sprang after him, overtook him, caught his hand 
between his teeth with reluctant tenderness and 
strove gently to make him pause. 

Failing in this. Wolf raced back to where Walt 
Irvine sat, catching his coatsleeve in his teeth and 
trying vainly to drag him after the retreating man. 

Wolf's perturbation began to wax. He desired 
ubiquity. He wanted to be in two places at the 
same time, with the old master and the new, and 
steadily the distance was increasing. He sprang 
about excitedly, making short, nervous leaps and 
twists, now toward one, now toward the other, in 
painful indecision, not knowing his own mind, de- 
siring both and unable to choose, uttering quick, 
sharp whines and beginning to pant. 

He sat down abruptly on his haunches, thrusting 
his nose upward, his mouth opening and closing 
with jerky movements, each time opening wider. 
The jerking movements were in unison with the re- 
current spasms that attacked the throat, each 



14 Patlnvay to Western Literature 

spasm severer and more intense than the preced- 
ing one. And in accord with jerks and spasms the 
larynx began to vibrate, at first silently, accom- 
panied by the rush of air expelled from the lungs, 
then sounding a low, deep note, the lowest in the 
register of the human ear. All this was the nervous 
and muscular preliminary to howling. 

But just as the howl was on the verge of burst- 
ing from the full throat, the wide open mouth was 
closed, the paroxysms ceased, and he looked long 
and steadily at the retreating man. Suddenly 
Wolf turned his head, and over his shoulder just 
as steadily regarded Walt. The appeal was un- 
ansAvered. Not a word nor a sign did the dog re- 
ceive, no suggestion and no clew as to what his con- 
duct should be. 

A glance ahead to where the old master was 
nearing the curve of the trail excited him again. 
He sprang to his feet with a Avhine, and then, 
struck by a new idea, turned his attention to 
Madge. Hitherto he had ignored her, but now, 
both masters failing him, she alone was left. He 
went over to her and snuggled his head in her lap, 
nudging her arm with his nose — an old trick of his 
when begging for favors. He backed away from 
her and began writhing and twisting playfully, 
curvetting and prancing, half rearing and striking 
his fore paws to the earth, struggling with all his 
body, from the wheedling eyes and flattening ears 
to the wagging tail, to express the thought that was 
in him and that was denied him utterance. 

This too he soon abandoned. He was depressed 
by the coldness of these humans who had never 
been cold before. No response could he draw from 



Brown Wolf 15 

them, no help could he get. They did not consider 
him. They were as dead. 

lie turned and silently gazed after the old mas- 
ter. Skiff Miller was rounding the curve. In a 
moment he would be gone from view. Yet he 
never turned his head, plodding straight onward, 
slowly and methodically, as though possessed of no 
interest in what was occurring behind his back. 

And in this fashion he Avent out of view. Wolf 
v/aited for him to reappear. He waited a long 
minute, quietly, silently v^^ithout movement, as 
though turned to stone — withal stone quick with 
eagerness and desire. He barked once, and waited. 
Then he turned and trotted back to Walt Irvine. 
He sniffed his hand and dropped down heavily at 
his feet, watching the trail where it curved emptily 
from view. 

The tiny stream slipping down the mossy-lipped 
stone seemed suddenly to increase the volume of its 
gurgling noise. Save for the meadow-larks, there 
was no other sound. The great yellow butterflies 
drifted silently through the sunshine and lost them- 
selves in the drowsy shadows. Madge gazed tri- 
umphantly at her husband. 

A few minutes later Wolf got upon his feet. 
Decision and deliberation marked his movements. 
He did not glance at the man and woman. His 
eyes were fixed up the trail. He had made up his 
mind. They knew it. And they knew, so far as 
they were concerned, that the ordeal had just be- 
gun. 

He broke into a trot and Madge's lips pursed, 
forming an avenue for the caressing sound that it 
was the will of her to send forth. But the caressing 



16 PatJncay to Western Literature 

sound was not made. She was impelled to look at 
her husband, and she saw the sternness with which 
he watched her. The pursed lips relaxed, and she 
sighed inaudibly. 

Wolf's trot broke into a run. Wider and wider 
were the leaps he made. Not once did he turn his 
head, his wolf's brush standing out straight behind 
him. He cut sharply across the curve of the trail 
and was gone. — From "Love of Life." 



COLUMBUS 

By JoAQxnN Milleb 

BEHIND him lay the gray Azores, 
Behind the gates of Hercules ; 
Before him not the ghost of shores ; 

Before him only shoreless seas. 
The good mate said: ''Now must we pray, 

For lo ! the very stars are gone. 
Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?" 
* ' Why, say : ' Sail on ! sail on ! and on ! ' 

*'My men grow mutinous day by day; 

My men grow ghastly wan and weak. ' ' 
The stout mate thought of home ; a spray 

Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 
**What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say, 

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" 
* ' Why, you shall say at break of day : 

* Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on ! ' " 



[Copyrighted by the Whitaker & Ray Company, 1897. 
From "Joaquin Miller's Poems." Published by Whit- 
aker-Ray-Wiggin Co.] 



Columbus 17 

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, 

Until at last the blanched mate said : 
''Why, now not even God would know 

Should I and all my men fall dead. 
These very winds forget their way, 

For God from these dread seas is gone. 
Now speak, brave Adm'r'l; speak and say" — 

He said : ' ' Sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " 

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate : 

"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. 
He curls his lip, he lies in wait, 

With lifted teeth, as if to bite ! 
Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word; 

What shall we do when hope is gone?" 
The words leapt like a leaping sword : 

* * Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " 

Then, pale and worn, he paced his deck, 

And peered through darkness. Ah, that night 
Of all dark nights ! And then a speck — 

Alight! Alight! At last a light ! Alight! 
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled ! 

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
He gained a world ; he gave that world 

Its grandest lesson : ' ' On ! sail on ! " 

— From ''Book of Poems." 



18 Pathway to ^Yestern Literature 

THE PASSING OF THE SPANISH HOME 

By Helen Hunt Jackson 

THE Senora Moreno's house was one of the best 
specimens to be found in California of the 
representative house of the half barbaric, half ele- 
gant, wholly generous and free-handed life led 
there by Mexican men and wonlen of degree in the 
early part of this century, under the rule of the 
Spanish and Mexican viceroys, v/hen the laws of 
the Indies were still the lav/ of the land, and its old 
name, "New Spain," was an ever-present link and 
stimulus to the warmest memories and deepest pa- 
triotisms of its people. 

It was a picturesque life, with more of sentiment 
and gayety in it, more, also, that was truly dramatic, 
more romance, than will ever be seen again on 
those sunny shores. The aroma of it all lingers 
there still; industries and inventions have not yet 
slain it ; it will last out its century — in fact it can 
never be quite lost, so long as there is left standing 
one such house as the Senora Moreno's. 

When the house was built Senora Moreno owned 
all the land within a radius of forty miles — forty 
miles westward, down the valley to the sea; forty 
miles eastward into the San Fernando Mountains; 
and a good forty miles, more or less, along the coast. 
The boundaries were not very strictly defined; 
there was no occasion in those happy days to reckon 
land by inches. It might be asked, perhaps, just 
how General Moreno owned all this land, and the 
question might not be easy to answer. It was not 
and could not be answered to the satisfaction of 



The Passing of the Spanish Home 19 

the United States Land Commission, which, after 
the surrender of California, undertook to sift and 
adjust Mexican land titles, and that was the way it 
had come about that the Seiiora Moreno now called 
herself a poor woman. Tract after tract, her lands 
had been taken away from her ; it looked for a time 
as if nothing would be left. Every one of the 
claims based on deeds of gift from Governor Pic 
Pico, her husband's most intimate friend, was dis- 
allowed. They all went by the board in one batch, 
and took away from the Senora in a day the great- 
er part of her best pasture lands. They were lands 
which had belonged to the Buenaventura Mission, 
and lay along the coast at the mouth of the valley 
down which the little stream which ran past her 
house went to the sea; and it had been a great 
pride and delight to the Seiiora, when she was 
young, to ride that forty miles by her husband *s 
side, all the way on their own lands, straight from 
their house to their own strip of shore. No wonder 
she believed the Americans thieves, and spoke of 
them always as hounds. The people of the United 
States have never in the least realized that the tak- 
ing possession of California was not only a con- 
quering of Mexico, but a conquering of California 
as well; that the real bitterness of the surrender 
was not so much to the empire which gave up the 
country, as to the country itself which was given 
up. Provinces passed back and forth in that way, 
helpless in the hands of great powers, have all the 
ignominy and humiliation of defeat, with none of 
the dignities or compensation of the transaction. 

Mexico saved much by her treaty, in spite of having 
to acknowledge herself beaten; but California lost 



20 Pathway to Western Literature 

all. Words cannot tell the sting of such a trans- 
fer. It is a marvel that a Mexican remained in the 
country ; probably none did, except those who were 
absolutely forced to it. 

Luckily for the Seiiora Moreno her title to the 
lands midway in the valley was better than to 
those lying to the east and to the west, which had 
once belonged to the missions of San Fernando 
and Buenaventura ; and after all the claims, coun- 
terclaims, petitions, appeals and adjudications were 
ended, she still was left in undisputed possession 
of what would have been thought by any new- 
comer into the country to be a handsome estate, 
but which seemed to the despoiled and indignant 
Sefiora a pitiful fragment of one. Moreover, she 
declared that she would never feel secure of a foot 
of even this. Any day, she said, the United States 
Government might send out a new land commis- 
sion to examine the decrees of the first, and revoke 
such as they saw fit. Once a thief, always a thief. 
Nobody need feel himself safe under American 
rule. There was no knowing what might happen 
any day ; and year by year the lines of sadness, re- 
sentment, anxiety and antagonism deepened on the 
Seiiora 's fast aging face. 

It gave her unspeakable satisfaction when the 
commissioners, laying out a road down the valley, 
ran it at the back of her house instead of past the 
front. **It is well,'' she said. **Let their travel be 
where it belongs, behind our kitchens ; and no one 
have sight of our front doors, except friends who 
have come to visit us." Her enjoyment of this 
never flagged. Whenever she saw, passing the 
place, wagons or carriages belonging to the hated 



The Passing of the Spanish Home 21 

Americans, it gave her a distinct thrill of pleasure 
to think that the house turned its back on them. 
She would like always to be able to do the same 
herself ; but whatever she, by policy or in business, 
might be forced to do, the old house, at any rate, 
would always keep the attitude of contempt — its 
face turned away. 

One other pleasure she provided herself with, 
soon after this road was opened — a pleasure in 
which religious devotion and race antagonism were 
so closely blended that it would have puzzled the 
subtlest of priests to decide whether her act was a 
sin or a virtue. She caused to be set up, upon 
every one of the soft rounded hills which made the 
beautiful rolling sides of that part of the valley, 
a large wooden cross; not a hill in sight of her 
house left without the sacred emblem of her faith. 
"That the heretics may know, as they go by, that 
they are on the estate of a good Catholic, ' ' she said, 
''and that the faithful may be reminded to pray. 
There have been miracles of conversion wrought on 
the most hardened by a sudden sight of the Blessed 
Cross.'' 

There they stood, summer and winter, rainr and 
shine, the silent, solemn, outstretched arms, and 
became landmarks to many a guideless traveler 
who had been told that his way would be by the 
first turn to the left or the right, after passing the 
last one of the Sefiora Moreno's crosses, which he 
couldn't miss seeing. And who shall say that it 
did not often happen that the crosses bore a sud- 
den message to some idle heart journeying by, and 
thus justified the pious half of the Seiiora's im- 
pulse ? Certain it was, that many a good Catholic 
3 



22 PatJnvay to Western Literature 

halted and crossed himself when he first beheld 
them, in the lonely places, standing out in sudden 
relief against the blue sky ; and if he said a swift, 
short prayer at the sight, was he not so much the 
better? — From ''Ramona.'' 



INDIAN BASKETRY 

By Ella Higginson 

INDIAN basketry is poetry, music, art and life 
itself woven exquisitely together out of dreams, 
and sent out into a thoughtless world in appealing 
messages which Avill one day be farewells, when 
the poor lonely dark women who wove them are 
no more. 

At its best, the basketry of the islands of Atka 
and Attn in the Aleutian chain is the most beauti- 
ful in the world. Most of the basketry now sold as 
Attn is woven by the women of Atka, we were told 
at Unalaska, which is the nearest market for these 
baskets. Only one old woman remains on Attu 
who understands this delicate and priceless work; 
and she is so poorly paid that she was recently re- 
ported to be in a starving condition, although the 
velvety creations of her old hands and brain bring 
fabulous prices to some one. The saying that an 
Attn basket increases a dollar for every mile as it 
travels toward civilization is not such an exaggera- 
tion as it seems. I saw a trader from the little 
steamer Dora — the only one regularly plying those 
far waters — buy a small basket, no larger than a 



[CopjTight by The Macmillan Company, 1908.] 



Indian Basketry 23 

pint bowl, for five dollars in Unalaska; and a 
month later, on another steamer, between Valdez 
and Seattle, an enthusiastic young man from New 
Tork brought the same basket out of his stateroom 
and proudly displayed it. 

"I got this one at a great bargain, ' ' he bragged, 
with shining eyes. "I bought it in Valdez for 
twenty-five dollars, just what it cost at Unalaska. 
The man needed the money worse than the basket. 
I don't know how it is, but I'm always stumbling 
on bargains like that!" he concluded, beginning to 
strut. 

Then I was heartless enough to laugh, and to 
keep on laughing. I had greatly desired that 
basket myself. 

He had the satisfaction of knowing, however, 
that his little twined bowl, with the coloring of a 
Behring Sea sunset woven into it, would be worth 
fifty dollars by the time he reached Seattle, and at 
least a hundred in New York; and it was so soft 
and flexible that he could fold it up meantime and 
carry it in his pocket, if he chose — to say nothing 
of the fact that Elizabeth Propokoffono, the young 
and famed dark-eyed weaver of Atka, may have 
woven it herself. Like the renowned * ' Sally-Bags, ' ' 
made by Sally, a Wasco squaw, the baskets woven 
by Elizabeth have a special and sentimental value. 
If she would weave her initials into them, she might 
ask, and receive, any price she fancied. Sally, of 
the Wascos, on the other hand, is very old ; no one 
weaves her special bag, and they are becoming rare 
and valuable. They are of plain, twined weaving, 
and are very coarse. A small one in the writer's 
possession is adorned with twelve fishes, six eagles. 



24 Pathway to Western Literature 

three dogs, and two and a half men. Sally is ap- 
parently a woman suffragist of the old school, 
and did not consider that men counted for much in 
the scheme of Indian baskets ; yet, being a philoso- 
pher, as well as a suffragist, concluded that half a 
man was better than none at all. 

At Yakutat "Mrs. Pete" is the best known basket 
weaver. Young, handsome, dark-eyed and clean, 
w^ith a chubby baby in her arms, she willingly and 
with great gravitj^ posed against the pilothouse of 
the old Santa Ana for her picture. Asked for an 
address to which I might send one of the pictures, 
she proudly replied, ''just Mrs. Pete, Yakutat." 
Her courtesy was in marked contrast to the ex- 
ceeding rudeness with Avhich the Sitkan women 
treat even the most considerate and differentia] 
photographers; glaring at them, turning their 
backs, covering their heads, hissing and even spit- 
ting at them. 

Basketry is either hand-woven or sewed. Hand- 
woven work is divided into checker work, twilled 
work, wicker work, wrapped work and twined 
work. Sewed work is called coiled basketry. 

Twined work is found on the Pacific Coast from 
Attn to Chile, and is the most delicate and difficult 
of all woven work. It has a set of warp rods, and 
the weft elements are worked in by two-strand or 
three-strand methods. Passing from warp to warp, 
these weft elements are twisted in half -turns on 
each other, so as to form a two-strand or three- 
strand twine or braid, and usually with a deftness 
that keeps the glossy side of the weft outward. 

*'The Thlinkit, weaving," says Lieutenant Em- 
mons, ''sits with knees updrawn to the chin, feet 



Indian Basketry 25 

close to the body, bent-shouldered, with arms 
around the knees, the work held in front. Some- 
times the knees fall slightly apart, the work held 
between them, the weft frequently held in the 
mouth, the feet easily crossed. The basket is held 
bottom down. In all kinds of weave, the strands 
are constantly dampened by dipping the fingers in 
water. The finest work of Attn and Atka is woven 
entirely under water. A rude awl, a bear's claw or 
tooth, are the only implements used. The Attn 
weaver has her basket inverted and suspended by a 
string, working from the bottom down toward the 
top. 

Almost every part of plants is used — roots, 
stems, bark, leaves, fruit and seeds. The following 
are the plants chiefly used by the Thlinkits : The 
black shining stems of the maiden-hair fern, which 
are easily distinguished and which add a rich 
touch; the split stems of the bromegrass as an 
overlaying material for the white pattern of 
spruce-root baskets ; for the same purpose, the split 
stem of blue-joint ; the stem of wood reedgracs ; the 
stem of tufted hairgrass; the stem of beach rye; 
the root of horsetail, which works in a rich purple ; 
wolf moss, boiled for canary-yellow dye; manna- 
grass; root of the Sitka spruce tree; juice of the 
blueberry for a purple dye. 

The Attn w^eaver uses the stems and leaves of 
grass, having no trees and few plants. When she 
wants the grass white, it is cut in November and 
hung, points down, out-doors to dry; if yellow be 
desired, as it usually is, it is cut in July and the 
two youngest full-grown blades are cut out and 
split into three pieces, the middle one being re- 



26 Pathivay to Western Literature 

jected and the others hung up to dry out-doors ; if 
green is wanted, the grass is prepared as for yel- 
low, except that the first two weeks of curing is 
carried on in the heavy shade of thick grasses, then 
it is taken into the house and dried. Curing re- 
quires about a month, during which time the sun is 
never permitted to touch the grass. 

Ornamentation by means of color is wrought by 
the use of materials which are naturally of a differ- 
ent color; by the use of dyed materials; by over- 
laying the weft and warp with strips of attractive 
material before weaving; by embroidering on the 
texture during the process of manufacture, this be- 
ing termed "false" embroidery; by covering the 
texture with plaiting, called imbrication; by the 
addition of feathers, beads, shells and objects of 
like nature. 

Some otherwise fine specimens of Atkan basketry 
are rendered valueless, in my judgment, by the 
present custom of introducing flecks of gaily-dyed 
wool, the matchless beauty of these baskets lying in 
their delicate, even weaving, and in their exquisite 
natural coloring — the faintest old rose, lavender, 
green, yellow and purple being woven together in 
one ravishing mist of elusive splendor. So enchant- 
ing to the real lover of basketry are the creations 
of those far lonely women's hands and brains, that 
they seem fairly to breathe out their loveliness 
upon the air, as a rose. 

This basketry was first introduced to the world 
in 1874 by William H. Dall, to whom Alaska and 
those who love Alaska owe so much. Warp and weft 
are both of beach grass or wild rye. One who has 



Indian BasJcetry 27 

never seen a fine specimen of these baskets has 
missed one of the joys of this world. 

The Aleuts perpetuate no story or myth in their 
ornamentation. With them it is art for art's sake; 
and this is, doubtless, one reason why their work 
draws the beholder spellbound. The symbolism of 
the Thlinkit is charming. It is found not alone in 
their basketry, but in their carvings in stone, horn, 
and wood, and in Chilkaht blankets. The favorite 
designs are shadow of a tree, water drops, salmon 
berry cut in half, the Arctic tern's tail, flaking of 
the flesh of a fish, shark's tooth, leaves of the fire- 
weed, an eye, raven's tail, and the crossing. It 
must be confessed that only a wild imagination 
could find the faintest resemblance of the symbols 
woven into the baskets to the objects they repre- 
sent. The symbol called "shadow of a tree" really 
resembles sunlight in moving water. 

With the Haidah hats and Chilkaht blankets it 
is very different. The head, feet, wings and tail 
of the raven, for instance, are easily traced. In 
more recent basketry the Swastika is a familiar 
design. Many Thlinkit baskets have "rattly" cov- 
ers. Seeds found in the crops of quail are woven 
into these covers. They are ''good spirits" which 
can never escape, and will insure good fortune to 
the owner. Woe be to him, however, should he 
permit his curiosity to tempt him to investigate; 
they Avill then escape, and work him evil instead of 
good all the days of his life. 

In Central Alaska, the basketry is usually of the 
coiled variety," coarsely and very indifferently ex- 
ecuted. Both spruce and willow are used. From 
Dawson to St. Michael, in the summer of 1907j 



28 Pathivay to Western Literature 

stopping at every trading post and Indian village, 
I did not see a single piece of basketry that I 
would carry home. Coarse, unclean and of sloven- 
ly workmanship, one could but turn away in pity 
and disgust for the wasted effort. 

The Innuit in the Behring Sea vicinity make 
both coiled and twined basketry from dried 
grasses ; but it is even v/orse than the Yukon bask- 
etry, being carelessly done — the Innuit infinitely 
preferring the carving and decorating of walrus 
ivory to basket weaving. It is delicious to find an 
Innuit, who never sav/ a glacier, decorating a paper- 
knife with something that looks like a pond lily 
and labelling it Taku Glacier, which is three thou- 
sand miles to the southeastward. I saw no attempt 
on the Yukon, nor on Behring Sea, at what Mr. 
Mason calls imbrication — the beautiful ornamenta- 
tion which the Indians of Columbia, Frazer and 
Thompson Rivers and of many Salish tribes of 
Northwestern Washington use to distinguish their 
coiled work. It resembles knife-plaiting before it is 
pressed flat. This imbrication is frequently of an 
exquisite dull, reddish brown over an old, soft yel- 
low. Baskets adorned with it often have handles 
and flat covers; but papoose baskets and covered 
long baskets, almost as large as trunks, are com- 
mon. 

The serpent has no place in Alaskan basketry for 
the very good reason that there is not a snake in all 
Alaska, and the Indians and Innuit probably never 
saw one. A woman may wade through the swamp- 
iest place or the tallest grass without one shivery 
glance at her pathway for that little sinuous ripple 
which sends terror to most women ^s hearts in 



Indian Basketry 29 

warmer climes. Indeed, it is claimed that no 
poisonous thing exists in Alaska. 

There was once a tide in my affairs which, not 
being taken at the flood, led on to everlasting re- 
gret. 

One August evening several years ago I landed 
on an island in Puget Sound where some Indians 
were camped for the fishing season. It was Sun- 
day; the men were playing the fascinating gamb- 
ling game of slahal, the children were shouting at 
play, the women were gathered in front of their 
tents, gossiping. 

In one of the tents I found a coiled, imbricated 
Thompson River basket in old red-browns and yel- 
lows. It was three and a half feet long, two and a 
half feet high, and two and a half wide, with a 
thick, close-fitting cover. It w-as offered to me for 
ten dollars, and — that I should live to chronicle it ! 
— not knowing the worth of such a basket, I closed 
my eyes to its appealing and unforgetable beauty, 
and passed it by. 

But it had, it has, and it always will have its 
silent revenge. It is as bright in my memory to- 
day as it was in my vision that August Sunday 
ten years ago, and more enchanting. My longing 
to see it again, to possess it, increases as the years 
go by. Never have I seen its equal, never shall I. 
Yet I am ever looking for that basket, in every 
Indian tent or hovel I may stumble upon — in vil- 
lages, in camps, in out-of-the-way places. Sure am 
I that I should know it from all other baskets, at 
but a glance. 

I knew nothing of the value of baskets, and I 
fancied the woman Avas taking advantage of my 



30 Pathivay to Western Literature 

ignorance. While I hesitated, the steamer whistled. 
It was all over in a moment ; my chance was gone. 
I did not even dream how greatly I desired that 
basket until I stood in the bow of the steamer and 
saw the little white camp fade from view across 
the sunset sea. — From "Alaska." 



AN ENGINEEEING TRIUMPH 

By Dan De Quille 

AXOTIiER work that has been of great benefit 
to the towns along the Comstock, and to all 
the mining and milling companies in and about the 
towns, and along the canons below, was the bring- 
ing of an ample supply of pure water from the 
Sierra Nevada Mountains. 

In tlie early days, when the first mining was done 
at Virginia City and Gold Hill, natural springs 
furnished a supply of water for the use of the few 
persons then living in the two camps. For a time 
after the discovery of silver, these springs, and a 
few wells that were dug by the settlers, sufficed for 
all uses, but as the towns grew in population an 
increased supply of water was demanded. A water 
company was formed and the water flowing from 
several tunnels, that had been run into the moun- 
tains west of Virginia City for prospecting pur- 
poses, was collected in large wooden tanks, and dis- 
tributed about the two towns by means of pipes. 
At length the tunnels from w^hich this supply was 
obtained began to run dry, and a water famine was 
threatened. It then became necessary to set men to 



"An Engineering Triumph 31 

work at extending the tunnels further into the hills 
to cut across new strata of rock. This increased 
the supply for a time, but at length the whole top 
of the hill into which the tunnels extended ap- 
peared to be completely drained. 

Early in the spring, when the snow was melting, 
they afforded a considerable supply; but in the 
summer, when water was most needed, the tunnels 
furnished but feeble streams and these were much 
impregnated with minerals, one of the least feared 
of which was arsenic. The ladies rather liked 
arsenic, as it improved their complexion; made 
them fair and rosy-cheeked — almost young again, 
some of them. The miners did not object to ar- 
senic, as, while it did not injure their complexion, 
it strengthened their lungs — made them strong- 
winded, and able to scale mountains. (Every man 
of them hungered to hunt the wild chamois.) But 
there were other minerals held in solution in the 
water — that were not so well thought of. 

The nearer hills having thus been drained, tun- 
nels were run into such of those further away as 
were of sufficient altitude to permit of streams 
from them being brought to the two towns. These 
tunnels were run for no other purpose than to 
find water. A hill was examined with a view to 
its water-producing capacity. It was found that 
those which rose up in a single sharp or rounded 
peak were not rich in water. The best water-pro- 
ducers were hills on the tops of which there were 
large areas of flat ground. That portion of a 
range of mountains which contained on the summit 
a large, shallow basin surrounded by clusters of 
hills or peaks was found to yield largely and for a 



32 Pathway to Western Literature 

long time, when tapped by a tunnel run under the 
basin or sink at the depth of three or four hundred 
feet. 

Dams were constructed across the outlets of 
these basins to hold back the water from the melt- 
ing snow, in order that it might filter down through 
the earth to the tunnels. At the mouths of the 
tunnels heavy bulkheads of timber and plank were 
constructed, to keep back and dam up the water 
where it could be kept cool and pure. Where 
deep shafts stood near the line of these tunnels, 
ditches were dug to them along the sides of the 
hills, and the water formed by the melting of the 
snow in the spring Avas let into them. All manner 
of devices, in short, were resorted to for the pur- 
pose of keeping in and upon the hills all of the 
moisture from snow or rains that fell upon them. 
Yet, one after another these hills failed. AVhen 
once the tops had been thoroughly drained it ap- 
peared to require all of the water that fell on them 
in any shape during winter to reach down into and 
moisten them to the level of the tunnels. Finally, 
there were, in all, many miles of these horizontal 
wells. All the hills from which water could be 
brought, for miles away to the northward and 
southward of Virginia City and Gold Hill, were 
tapped, thousands on thousands of dollars being 
expended in this work. When a reservoir of water 
was first tapped in a new hill there would be 
poured out a great flood for a few days ; this would 
then fall to a moderate stream and so remain for 
a month or two, when it would begin to dwindle 
away. The water from the many tunnels was col- 
lected by means of small wooden flumes or troughs. 



An Engineering Triumph 33 

winding about the curves of the hills for miles, and 
in summer, when most wanted, the sickly streams 
from the more distant tunnels were lost by leakage 
and evaporation before having finished half their 
course to the towns. 

Virginia City and Gold Hill were frequently 
placed upon a short allowance of water, and it was 
seen that a great water famine must soon prevail in 
both towns, in case the tunnels that had been run 
into the mountains were depended upon for a sup- 
ply. The Virginia and Gold Hill AVater Company 
then determined to bring a supply of pure water 
from the streams and lakes of the Sierra Nevada 
Mountains — from the regions of eternal snow. 

The distance from Virginia City to the first 
available streams in the Sierras was about twenty- 
five miles ; but between the Virginia range of moun- 
tains and the Sierras lay the deep depression 
known as Washoe Valley — in one part of which is 
situated Washoe Lake. The problem to be solved 
in bringing water from the Sierras to Virginia 
City was how to convey it across this deep valley. 

Mr. H. Sehussler, the engineer under whose su- 
pervision the Spring Valley Water Works, of San 
Francisco, were constructed, was sent for, and 
crossing the Sierras he made an examination of the 
route over which it was proposed to bring the 
water. He acknowledged that the undertaking 
was one of great difficulty. To convey the water 
across the deep depression formed by AYashoe Val- 
ley would demand the performing of a feat in 
hydraulic engineering never before attempted in 
any part of the world. This was to carry the 
water through an iron pipe under a perpendicular 



34 Pathivay to Western Literature 

pressure of 1,720 feet. This feat, however, Mr. 
Schussler said could be performed, and he was 
ready to undertake it at once. 

Surveys w^ere made, in the spring of 1872, and 
orders given for the manufacture of the pipe. To 
make the pipe was the work of nearly a year. The 
manufacturers were furnished with a diagram of 
the line on which it was to be laid and each section 
was made to fit a certain spot. "When the route lay 
round a point of rocks the pipe was made of the 
required curve, and other curved sections were re- 
quired when the line crossed deep and narrow 
ravines. 

The first section of pipe was laid June 11th, 
1873, and the last on the 25th of July the same 
year. The whole length of the pipe is seven miles 
and one hundred and thirty-four feet. Its interior 
diameter is twelve inches, and is capable of deliver- 
ing 2,200,000 gallons of water per twenty-four 
hours. It lies across AYashoe Valley in the form of 
an inverted syphon. The end at which the ^vater 
is received rests upon a spur from the main Sierras 
at an elevation of 1,885 feet above AA^ashoe Valley. 
The outlet is on the crest of the A^irginia range of 
mountains, on the eastern slope of which are sit- 
uated the towns of A^irgiuia and Gold Hill. The 
perpendicular elevation of the inlet above the out- 
let is four hundred and sixty-five feet. Thus is 
brought to bear a great pressure which forces the 
water rapidly through the pipe. 

The water is brought to the inlet through a large 
wooden flume, and at the outlet is delivered into a 
similar flume, twelve miles in length, which conveys 
it to Virginia City. The pipe is of wrought iron, 



An Engineering Triumph 35 

and is fastened by three rows of five-eighths-inch 
rivets. At the lowest point in the ground crossed, 
the perpendicular pressure is one thousand seven 
hundred and twenty feet, equal to eight hundred 
pounds to the square inch. Here the iron is five- 
sixteenths of an inch in thickness, but as the 
ground rises to the east and west, and the pressure 
is reduced, the thickness of the iron decreases 
through one-fourth, three-sixteenths, down to one- 
sixteenth. 

In its course the pipe crosses thirteen deep 
gulches, making necessary that number of undula- 
tions, as it is throughout its length laid at the 
depth of 214 feet below the surface of the earth. 
Besides these, there are a great number of lateral 
curves round hills and points of rocks. There was 
just one place and none other for each section of 
pipe as received from the manufactory. At each 
point where there is a depression in the pipe there 
is a blow-off cock, for the removal of any sediment 
that may collect, and on the top of each ridge is an 
air-cock, for blowing off the air when the water 
was first let in, and at other times when the pipe 
is being filled. The pipe contains no less than 
1,150,000 pounds of rolled iron, is held together by 
1,000,000 rivets, and there were used in securing 
the joints 52,000 pounds of lead, which was melted 
and poured in from a portable furnace that moved 
along the line as the work of laying the pipe pro- 
gressed. Before being put down, each section of 
the pipe was boiled in a bath of asphaltum and 
coal-tar at a temperature of 380 degrees. At the 
first filling of the pipe a stream of water, about the 
thickness of a common lead-pencil, escaped through 



36 Pathivay to TVestern Literature 

the lead packing of a joint, at a point where the 
pressure was greatest. This struck against the 
face of a rock and, rebounding, played upon the 
upper side of the pipe. The water brought with it 
from the rock a small quantity of sand or grit, per- 
haps, but at all events it soon bored a hole through 
the pipe, and from this hole, w^hich shortly became 
two or three inches in diameter, a jet of water as- 
scended to the height of two hundred feet or more, 
spreading out in the shape of a fan toward the top. 

When this break occurred, a signal smoke was 
made in the valley, and the lookout at the inlet on 
the mountain spur shut off the water. Over each 
joint in the pipe was placed a cast-iron sleeve or 
band, weighing 300 pounds, and within this sleeve 
was poured the molten lead which served as pack- 
ing. In all there were used 1,475, or 442,500 
pounds, of these sleeves, and but three out of the 
whole number proved faulty and failed to sustain 
the strain brought upon them, and of 12,640 sheets 
of iron used in the pipe but one bad one was found. 
As it would have been a great task to test each 
section of the pipe by hydraulic pressure at the 
manufactory, the engineer proposed to bring the 
whole under the required strain at once, after they 
were put do^\Ti. He began the pressure with a 
perpendicular height of 1,250 feet in the column 
of water, increased it to 1,550, to 1,700, and finally 
to 1,850, being 130 feet more than the pipe would 
be required to sustain when in actual use. 

During these experiments, men were stationed at 
the inlet of the pipe, at its outlet on the summit of 
the Virginia range, and at various points through 
the valley, as lookout men. They made their sig- 



An Engineering Triumph 37 

nals by means of smoke during the day, and a fire 
by night — a trick learned from the Piute Indians. 

As the water came surging down through the 
great inverted syphon from the elevated mountain 
spur, and began to fill and press upon the parts 
lying in the deeper portions of the valley, one 
after another the blow-off cocks on the crests of the 
ridges crossed, opened, and allowed the escape of 
the compressed air. Compared with what was 
heard when these cocks blew off, the blowing of a 
whale was a mere whisper. The water finally 
flowed through the pipe and reached Gold Hill and 
Virginia City on the night of August 1, 1873. 
Early that evening a signal fire was lighted in the 
mountains at the inlet of the pipe, showing that the 
water had again been turned on. 

As the pipe filled, the progress of the water in it 
could be traced by the blowing off of the air on the 
tops of the ridges, through the valley and at last, to 
the great joy of the engineer and all concerned in 
the success of the enterprise, the signal fire at the 
outlet, on the summit of the Virginia range, w^as for 
the first time lighted, showing that the water was 
flowing through the whole length of the pipe. 

AVhen the water reached Virginia City there w^as 
great rejoicing. Cannons were fired, bands of music 
paraded the streets, and rockets were sent up all 
over the city. Many persons went out and filled 
bottles with this first water from the Sierras, and 
a bottle of it is still preserved in the cabinet of the 
Pacific Coast Pioneers.— From "The Big Bonanza." 



38 Pathway to Western Literature 

NOBILITY 

By Richard Realf 

CAN'T man be noble unless he be great, 
With a patrimonial hall ; 
And heaps of gold and vast estate, 
And vassals at his call ? 

Can't man be noble unless there be 

A title to his name, 
Unless he live in luxury 

Or loll in the seats of fame ? 

Can't man be noble unless his voice 

Be heard in the senate band; 
Or his eye flash bright and his words breathe light 

Through all his native land ? 

Ah yes ! at the forge and the weaver 's loom, 

As well as in hall of state, 
At the desk and in the cottage room. 

There are noble ones and great. 

They are springing up on every side. 

In hamlet and in town ; 
Where the stream pours and ocean roars, 

They are wreathing a laurel crown. 

They are weaving the mighty robe of truth, 
And bold are the throw^s they make. 

As they are teaching age and guilt 
Oppressive bonds to break. 



[From "Poems by Richard Realf." Copyright by Funk & 
Wagnalls, N. Y. and London.] 



A Unique House 39 

Yes, these are the noble and the great 

"Who will shine at a distant day, 
Where titled ones of hall and state 

Shall have been but far away. 

— From ''Poems." 



A UNIQUE HOUSE 

By W. C. Bartlett 

THE loftiest house, and the most perfect, in the 
matter of architecture, I have ever seen, was that 
which a wood-chopper occupied with his family one 
winter in the forests of Santa Cruz County. It 
was the cavity of a redwood tree two hundred and 
forty feet in height. Fire had eaten away the 
trunk at the base, until a circular room had been 
formed, sixteen feet in diameter. At twenty feet 
or more from the ground was a knot-hole, which 
afforded egress for the smoke. With hammocks 
hung from pegs, and a few cooking utensils hung 
from other pegs, that house lacked no essential 
thing. This woodsman was in possession of a house 
which had been a thousand years in process of 
building. Perhaps on the very day it was finished 
he came along and entered it. How did all jack- 
knife and hand-saw architecture sink into insig- 
nificance in contrast with this house in the solitudes 
of the great forest! Moreover, the tenant fared 
like a prince ; within thirty yards of his coniferous 
house a mountain stream went rushing past to the 
sea. In the swirls and eddies under the shelving 
rocks if one could not land half a dozen trout 



40 Patlnvay to ^Yestern Literature 

within an hour he deserved to go hungry as a pen- 
alty for his awkwardness. Now and then a deer 
came out into the openings, and, at no great dis- 
tance quail, rabbits and pigeons could be found. 
AYhat did this man want more than nature had 
furnished him? He had a house with a "cupola" 
two hundred and forty feet high, and game at the 
cost of taking it. — From ''A Breeze From the 
Woods." 



IN BLOSSOM TIME 

By In a Coolbrith 

T'S my heart, my heart. 

To be out in the sun and sing — 
To sing and shout in the fields about. 
In the balm and blossoming ! 

Sing loud, bird in the tree ; 

bird, sing loud in the sky, 
And honey-bees, blacken the clover beds — 

There is none of you glad as I. 

The leaves laugh low in the wind, 
Laugh low, with the wind at play ; 

And the odorous call of the flowers all 
Entices my soul away! 

For but the world is fair, is fair — 

And but the world is sweet ! 
I will out in the gold of the blossoming mould. 

And sit at the Master's feet. 



'Autumn in Southern California 41 

And the love my heart would speak, 

I will fold in the lily's rim, 
That the lips of the blossom, more pure and meek, 

May offer it up to Him. 

Then sing in the hedgerow green, thrush, 

skylark, sing in the blue; 
Sing loud, sing clear, that the king may hear, 

And my soul shall sing with you ! 

—From ^' Songs of the Golden Gate/' 



AUTUMN IN SOUTHEEN CALIFORNIA 

By Theodore Van Dyke 

THERE is nothing about autumn here that is at 
all saddening or sentimental. It is only the long- 
lingering afternoon of a long-lingering summer day. 
There are dreamy hazes and filmy atmospheres 
enough, but they are not at all peculiar to autumn. 
The spider occasionally weaves his thin shroud 
and the gossamer rides the air; dead leaves rustle 
to the rabbit 's tread ; the crow caws from the tree- 
top ; the jay jangles and the quail pipes ; but they 
have been doing it all summer, and, in truth, much 
of it in the spring. It is a bad country for ''the 
singer," although one occasionally ventures *'a 
poem" in which no one without looking at the title 
could tell which season it described. 

September brings no change along the rolling 
hills, except a little ashen tint upon the ramiria 
and the chorizanthe, a paler brown upon the dod- 
der that clambers over the chemisal or buckwheat, 
a grayer shade upon the white sage and the dead 



42 Pathway to Wester7i Literature 

phaeelias, a grayer brown upon the plains and 
table-lands. Smiling from unclouded skies, the sun 
passes the central line, the nights grow a trifle 
cooler, the ocean breeze a trifle fresher; but in- 
stead of rain there is merely a dryer air. The lin- 
net and the mocking-bird are heard no more; the 
cooing of the dove sounds more seldom from the 
grove; the brooding call of the quail has ceased 
along the hills and dales, and the young coveys 
gather into large bands. The mimulus that has 
lingered long among the shady chinks of the gran- 
ite piles begins to close its crimson bugles ; the ivy 
that twines the oak above it shows a strong tinge 
of scarlet; the sand-verbena and other summer 
flowers begin to fade ; the wild gourd ripens on the 
low grounds, and the meadows along the edge turn 
a trifle sere. But in nearly all else it is summer. 

October comes, but the summer sun still rules 
the land. The low hills that are free from chapar- 
ral grow paler where the dead mustard, wild oats, 
clover, alfileria and foxtail have so long lain bleach- 
ing. The chaparral bushes look, perhaps, a trifle 
weary ; the green of the sumac is a little less bright 
than in July; the elder and the Avild buckwheat 
look unmistakably worse for wear, and even the 
ever- vigorous cactus seems to think it has done full 
duty. But all these changes are very slight and 
Avould scarcely be noticed by the casual observer. 
For the whole host of bushes and trees that cover 
the hills, the living grass that covers the moist 
lands, and the dead grass that carpets the plains, 
all wear the same general appearance as in July; 
while some plants, such as goldenrod in the mead- 
ows, are just coming into bloom, and on the dry 



Autumn in Southern California 43 

lands the baccharis is rearing its snowy plumes. 
Many days will now be cooler than most days of 
the summer, hoar-frost will be found along the 
mountain valleys, some skies will be a little over- 
cast, perhaps rain enough may fall to start the 
weather prophets; but the whole will be soft and 
bright like the sunset hour of a lovely summer day. 

November : Yet no leaden skies ; no sodden leaves 
on soaking ground; no snowflakes riding on howl- 
ing blasts; no sloughs of mud in the roads to- 
day, frozen hummocks to-morrow ; no robin chirp- 
ing out a dismal farewell high above one 's head ; 
no fish-ducks whistling down the icy margin of the 
pond where of late the mallard quacked ; no spar- 
rows sitting around with ruffled feathers. Only a 
little colder nights and shorter days; only a little 
frost along the bottoms of the valleys ; only a little 
stiller, drier air, often clearer than in summer, ex- 
cept where brush- fires make it thick or hazy. The 
evaporation being checked by the longer and cooler 
nights, the water rises in the springs and runs in 
places where two months ago was nothing but dry 
sand. The wild duck appears along the sloughs, 
the honk of the goose is heard again in its winter 
haunts, the bluebird and robin come down from 
the high mountains, and the turtledove almost dis- 
appears. The sycamore and cottonwood begin to 
look sere, the grapevine leaves are yellowing, and 
the willows are fast fading. But in nearly all else 
it is still summer. 

December comes at last, but few would suspect 
it. The nights are still colder, and the hoar-frost 
creeps higher up along the slopes of the valleys, 
and thin ice may form at daylight on some of the 



44 Patlnvay to Western Literature 

lowest grounds. Yet the days are nearly like those 
of summer, though the Seabreeze is almost gone 
and the wind comes often from the north and east. 
The berries of the manzanita are now black and 
shining ; the heteromeles is aglow with scarlet clus- 
ters; the goldenrod that lately blazed along the 
meadow^s is grown gray and fuzzy ; the acorns pat- 
ter on the roof beneath the spreading live-oak ; the 
plains look a little grayer, the table-lands a little 
browner. But the grand old oaks, the sumacs, the 
lilac, fuchsia, manzanita, madrona — all the chapar- 
ral bushes, in fact — are very nearly as green as 
ever. "We might as well call the whole of it sum- 
mer, for it is only summer a little worn out. 

' ' How fearfully monotonous all that must be ! " 
remarks one who has never passed through it. "I 
like something positive, some distinctive features 
about the seasons. It is so pleasant to sit by the 
fire and hear the snowstorm howl without ; sleigh- 
riding is so delightful, skating is such a luxury! 
And then the winter air is so bracing and sends 
the pulse bounding, and makes the cheek glow with 
health!'' 

To which it might be replied: There are some 
things that are not always objectionable even when 
monotonous ; such things as health and wealth, for 
instance. It is possible that such things appear 
monotonous to those who do not possess them ; and 
also possible that after a thorough trial of them 
they might change their opinion of them. One 
who has never spent an autumn outside of an um- 
brella or an overcoat, and all whose winters have 
been largely spent sitting by the fires and listen- 
ing to the raging of the storm without, is hardly a 



Leaf and Blade 45 

competent judge compared with one who has given 
both sides of the case a fair trial, as have most of 
the residents of California. At all events, there is 
always one resource for any one whom such mo- 
notony troubles— to return to the East and try 
once more those good old days by the fire. Few 
ever stay East long enough to test them again thor- 
oughly; from those that do, ''monotony" is the 
least complaint ever heard after their return to 
Calif ornia.— From ' ' Southern California. ' ' 



I 



LEAF AND BLADE 

By In a. Coolbbith 

AM a lowly grass blade, 

A fair green leaf is she. 
Her little fluttering shadow 
Falls daily over me. 

She sits so high in sunshine, 

I am so low in shade, 
I do not think she ever 

Has looked where I am laid. 

She sings to merry music. 

She frolics in the light; 
The great moon plays the lover 

With her through half the night. 

The swift, sweet winds they flatter 
And woo her all the day — 

I tremble lest the boldest 
Should carry her away. 



46 Pailnvay to Western Literature 

Only a little grass blade 
That dare not look so high, 

Yet, oh ! not any love her 
One-half so well as I. 

My little love — so happy ! 

My love — so proud and fair ! 
AA^ould she might dwell forever 

In the sweet summer air. 

But, ah ! the days will darken. 
The pleasant skies will pall, 

And pale, and parched, and broken, 
My little love down fall. 

And yet the thought most bitter 

Is not that she must die. 
But that even death should bring her 

To lie as low as I. 
— From ''Songs From the Golden Gate.'' 



THE ASCENT OF MT. TYNDALL 

By Clarence King 

THERE was no foothold above us. Looking 
down over the course we had come, it seemed, 
and I really believe it was, an impossible descent; 
for one can climb upward with safety where he 
cannot downward. To turn back was to give up in 
defeat ; and we sat at least half an hour, suggesting 
all possible routes to the summit, accepting none, 
and feeling disheartened. 



[Copyright, 1902, by Charles Scribner's Sons.] 



The Ascent of Mt. Tyndall 47 

About thirty feet directly over our heads was 
another shelf which, if we could reach it, seemed to 
offer at least a temporary way upward. On its 
edge were two or three spikes of granite; whether 
firmly connected with the cliff, or merely to blocks 
of debris, we could not tell from below. I said to 
Cotter, I thought of but one possible plan : It was 
to lasso one of these blocks, and to climb, sailor 
fashion, hand over hand, up the rope. 

In the lasso I had perfect confidence, for I had 
seen more than one Spanish bull throw his whole 
weight against it without parting a strand. The 
shelf was so narrow that throwing the coil of rope 
was a very difficult undertaking. 

I tried three times, and Cotter spent five min- 
utes vainly whirling the loop up at the granite 
spikes. 

At last I made a lucky throw, and it tightened 
upon one of the smaller protuberances. I drew the 
noose close, and very gradually threw my hundred 
and fifty pounds upon the rope ; then Cotter joined 
me and, for a moment, we both hung our united 
weight upon it. 

Whether the rock moved slightly or whether the 
lasso stretched a little we were unable to decide; 
but the trial must be made, and I began to climb 
slowly. The smooth precipice-face against which 
my body swung offered no foothold, and the whole 
climb had, therefore, to be done by the arms, an 
effort requiring all one's determination. When 
about halfway up I was obliged to rest, and curling 
my feet in the rope, managed to relieve my arms 
for a moment. In this position I could not resist 
the fascinating temptation of a survey downward. 



48 Pathivay to Westerri Literature 

Straight down, nearly a thousand feet below, at 
the foot of the rocks, began the snow, whose steep, 
roof -like slope, exaggerated into an almost vertical 
angle, curved down in a long white field, broken 
far away by rocks and polished, round lakes of ice. 

Cotter looked up cheerfully and asked how I was 
making it, to which I answered that I had plenty 
of wind left. At that moment, when hanging be- 
tv:een heaven and earth, it was a deep satisfaction 
to look down at the wild gulf of desolation beneath, 
and up to unknown dangers ahead, and to feel my 
nerves cool and unshaken. 

A few pulls hand over hand brought me to the 
edge of the shelf, when, throwing an arm around 
the granite spike, I swung my body upon the shelf 
and lay down to rest, shouting to Cotter that I was 
all right, and that the prospects upward were cap- 
ital. After a few moments' breathing I looked 
over the brink and directed my comrade to tie the 
barometer to the lower end of the lasso, which he 
did, and that precious instrument was hoisted to 
my station, and the lasso sent down twice for knap- 
sacks, after which Cotter came up the rope in his 
very muscular way without once stopping to rest. 
We took our loads in our hands, swinging the 
barometer over my shoulder, and climbed up a 
shelf which led in a zigzag direction upward and to 
the south, bringing us out at last upon the thin 
blade of a ridge which connected a short distance 
above with the summit. It was formed of huge 
blocks, shattered and ready, at a touch, to fall. 

So narrow and sharp was the upper slope that 
we dared not walk, but got astride, and worked 
slowly along with our hands, pushing the knap- 



The Ascent of Mt. Tyndall 49 

sacks in advance, now and then holding our breath 
when loose masses rocked under our weight. 

Once upon the summit, a grand view burst upon 
us. Hastening to step upon the crest of the divide, 
which was never more than ten feet wide, frequent- 
ly sharpened to a thin blade, we looked down the 
other side, and were astonished to find we had as- 
cended the gentler slope, and that the rocks fell 
from our feet in almost vertical precipices for a 
thousand feet or more. A glance along the summit 
toward the highest group showed us that any ad- 
vance in that direction was impossible, for the thin 
ridge was gashed along in notches three or four 
hundred feet deep, forming a procession of pillars, 
obelisks, and blocks piled upon each other, and 
looking terribly insecure. 

We then deposited our knapsacks in a safe place, 
and, finding that it was already noon, determined 
to rest a little while and take a lunch at over thir- 
teen thousand feet above the sea. 

The view Avas so grand, the mountain colors so 
brilliant, immense snowfields and blue alpine lakes 
so charming, that we almost forgot we were ever to 
move, and it was only after a swift hour of this de- 
light that we began to consider our future course. 

''We're in for it now. King," remarked my 
comrade, as he looked aloft, and then down; but 
our blood was up and danger added only an ex- 
hilarating thrill to the nerves. 

The shelf was barely more than two feet wide 
and the granite so smooth that we could find no 
place to fasten the lasso for the next descent; so 
I determined to try the climb with only as little 
aid as possible. Tying it around my breast again, 



50 Pathway to Western Literature 

I gave the other end into Cotter's hands, and he, 
bracing his back against the cliff, found for himself 
as firm a foothold as he could, and promised to give 
me all the help in his poAver. I made up my mind 
to bear no Aveight unless it was absolutely neces- 
sary ; and for the first ten feet I found cracks and 
protuberances enough to support me, making every 
square inch of surface do friction duty, and hug- 
ging myself against the rocks as tightly as I could. 
When within about eight feet of the next shelf, I 
twisted myself round upon the face, hanging by 
two rough blocks of protruding feldspar, and 
looked vainly for some further handhold; but the 
rock, beside being perfectly smooth, overhung 
slightly, and my legs dangled in the air. I saw 
that the next cleft was over three feet broad, and 
I thought possibly I might, by a quick slide, reach 
it in safety without endangering Cotter. I shouted 
to him to be very careful and let go in case I fell, 
loosened my hold upon the rope, and slid quickly 
down. My shoulder struck against the rock and 
threw me out of balance; for an instant I reeled 
over upon the verge, in danger of falling, but, in 
the excitement, I thrust out my hand and seized 
a small alpine gooseberry bush, the first piece of 
vegetation we had seen. Its roots were so firmly 
fixed in the crevice that it held my weight and 
saved me. 

I could no longer see Cotter, but I talked to him, 
and heard the two knapsacks come bumping along 
till they slid over the eaves above me, and swung 
dovm to my station, when I seized the lasso's end 
and braced myself as well as possible, intending, 
if he slipped, to haul in slack and help him as best 



The Ascent of Mt. Tyndall 51 

I could. As he came slowly down from crack to 
crack, I heard his hobnailed shoes grating on the 
granite; presently they appeared dangling from 
the eaves above my head. I had gathered in the 
rope until it was taut, and then hurriedly told him 
to drop. He hesitated a moment and let go. Be- 
fore he struck the rock I had him by the shoulder 
and whirled him down upon his side, thus prevent- 
ing his rolling overboard, which friendly action he 
took quite coolly. 

The third descent was not a difficult one, nor the 
fourth ; but when we had climbed down about two 
hundred and fifty feet the rocks were so glacially 
polished and water-worn that it seemed impossible 
to get any farther. To our right was a crack pene- 
trating the rock perhaps a foot deep, widening at 
the surface to three or four inches, which proved 
to be the only possible ladder. As the chances 
seemed rather desperate, w^e concluded to tie our- 
selves together, in order to share a common fate, 
and with a slack of thirty feet between us and our 
knapsacks upon our backs, we climbed into the 
crevice and began descending with our faces to the 
cliff. This had to be done with unusual caution, 
for the foothold was about as good as none, and 
our fingers slipped annoyingly on the smooth 
stone ; besides, the knapsacks and instruments kept 
a steady Backward pull, tending to over-balance us. 
But we took pains to descend one at a time and 
rest whenever the niches gave our feet a safe sup- 
port. In this way we got down about eighty feet 
of smooth, nearly vertical wall, reaching the top of 
a rude granite stairway, which led to the snow; 
and here we sat down to rest and found to our as- 



52 Patlnvay to Western Literature 

tonishment that we had been three hours from the 
summit. 

After breathing a half minute we continued 
down, jumping from rock to rock, and, having by 
practice become very expert in balancing our- 
selves, sprang on, never resting long enough to 
lose the aplomb, and in this way made a quick de- 
scent over rugged debris to the crest of a snow- 
field, which, for seven or eight hundred feet more, 
swept down in a smooth, even slope, of very high 
angle, to the borders of a frozen lake. 

Without untying the lasso which bound us to- 
gether, we sprang upon the snow with a shout and 
glissaded down splendidly, turning now and then 
a summersault and shooting out like cannonballs 
almost to the middle of the frozen lake, I upon 
my back, and Cotter feet first, in a swmming posi- 
tion. The ice cracked in all directions. It was 
only a thin, transparent film, through which we 
could see deep into the lake. Untying ourselves 
we hurried ashore in different directions, lest our 
combined weight should be too great a strain upon 
any point. 

With curiosity and wonder we scanned every 
shelf and niche of the last descent. It seemed quite 
impossible we could have come down there, and 
now it actually was beyond human power to 
get back again. But what cared we? '^ Sufficient 
unto the day. ' ' We were bound for that still dis- 
tant, though gradually nearing, summit; and we 
had come from a cold, shadowed cliff into delicious- 
ly warm sunshine and were jolly, shouting, singing 
songs and calling out the companionship of a hun- 



A Trip to the Farallones 53 

dred echoes.— From ''Mountaineering in the Sierra 
Nevadas. ' ' 



A TRIP TO THE FARALLONES 

By Charles Keeler 

A T daylight, on a Sunday morning in July, I 
^"^ found myself with one companion standing up- 
on Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco and waiting 
for the signal to start upon a trip to the Farallones. 
The early hour had been chosen on account of the 
tide, which was then on the ebb, a circumstance of 
no little importance in undertaking to beat out to 
sea through the Golden Gate against the fresh head 
wind which was then blowing. The sun was just 
flushing the misty sky over the Berkeley hills 
across the bay, and the staunch craft of the Greek 
fishermen were bobbing about at their moorings 
beside us. One or two were already starting off 
and spreading their graceful lateen sails to the 
morning breeze. A group of bronzed fishermen, in 
their blue shirts, rubber boots and bright sashes, 
were at work making ready some of the boats for 
the day's labor, washing seines, hauling them in to 
dry and cleaning off the decks. 

The captain and two hands, composing the crew 
of our little boat, were late in arriving, but pre- 
sently appeared on the wharf with supplies for the 
trip. Like most of the fishermen, our men were 
Greeks, understanding but little English and speak- 
ing less. Our boat was the largest of the fisher- 
men's one-masted craft with lateen sails, and was 
5 



54 Pathivay to Western Literature 

decked over, leaving an apartment below in which 
one might sit or crawl about in the darkness. All 
being ready, the anchor was drawn in and stowed 
below, and the long oars w^re brought into use to 
carry us well out into the stream. By this time the 
breeze had freshened so that the water was flecked 
with big white combers. Several fishing boats had 
started out before us and a number followed close- 
ly after, making a picturesque little flotilla scudding 
along under closely reefed sails. The raising of our 
mainsail in so stiff a breeze was attended with no 
little difficulty, but at last, after much pulling, 
jumping about, shouting and dodging of flapping 
canvas and swinging boom, it was up and we were 
started on our voyage. 

My companion and I were safely stowed out of 
harm's way below deck, with the hatch tightly 
closed over our heads and the odors of unsavory 
viands and bilge water about us in the darkness. 
The boat was bobbing about like a cork and the 
one controlling passion of our lives was to get out 
of our prison into the sunlight. This we presently 
insisted on doing, and, upon opening the hatch and 
standing up in the well, life took on quite a differ- 
ent aspect. The cold, salt air soon restored us to 
a more comfortable frame of mind, although, every 
few minutes, a vigorous wave would come cathud 
against the bow and hurl a bucketful of water in 
our faces. The fortunate possession of a rubber 
coat saved me from being completely drenched, 
and, with the exception of the seepage from an oc- 
casional shower of spray running down my neck, 
and a pair of wet shoes, I kept tolerably dry. The 
case was otherwise with my companion, however; 



A Tri'p io the Farallones 55 

he had no rubber coat and was accordingly soon 
compelled to go below, drenched and disconsolate. 

We passed the ships anchored in the stream. 
Alcatraz, with its array of fortifications, was on 
the right of us and Black Point on the left. As 
we stood out past Lime Point, in the teeth of a stiff 
breeze, I occupied myself watching the California 
murres disporting in the water. The murre is one 
of the low forms of sea bird which nest along the 
exposed rocky cliffs of both the Atlantic and Pa- 
cific Oceans. The breeze was still blowing and our 
little craft tumbling about as it approached the bar 
of the Golden Gate. When a little way out at sea, 
we noticed, slightly isolated from the mainland, a 
large rock completely whitened with the guano of 
this bird, a fact indicating the presence of a large 
rookery. 

The wind, which had been uncomfortably brisk 
inside the bay, left us almost entirely after we were 
well off the shore, and we were soon rolling aimless- 
ly on the broad ocean swells, with only now and then 
a puff of air to make the sails flap. Thus we spent 
the rest of the day, the great glassy undulating 
surface of the sea rocking us about upon the very 
threshold of our journey, with the bleak coast-line 
visible far behind us — bold, bare and black in hue, 
save for some yellow patches of dead grass — and 
the Farallones lost in the mist at sea. The sun 
went down behind them and out of the west came 
the cold, pervasive fog, folding us in its mantle of 
utter darkness. Ships were near us, becalmed in 
like manner. At intervals their foghorns blew and 
our captain responded upon a dismal tin horn. 
One ship drew so near that we could hear the 



56 PatJnvay to Western Literature 

cries of the men as they tugged at the ropes, the 
voice of the mate calling orders and the noise of 
the flapping sails. 

We went supper-less to bed, our stomachs not ad- 
mitting of experiments with the coarse fare of the 
fishermen, and lay in our close, damp quarters in 
uneasy sleep. At daj^break next morning the dark, 
lead-colored water and foggy air looked cheerless 
enough, but we were consoled by the information 
that we were sailing under a good breeze directly 
toward our destination. Soon the North Farallones 
loomed up through the fog — little bare rocks vis- 
ible only as we rose on the crest of a wave, with 
the surf dashing against their sides. Presently 
Midway Rock was passed and at last we were in 
sight of South Farallone. Almost before we knew 
it the mainsail had been lowered. As we rounded 
a projecting rock the jib was taken in and we slip- 
ped past Sugar Loaf Rock into Fisherman's Bay, 
where the anchor was dropped and the fog-horn 
blown to summon the eggers on shore to send us a 
skiff in which to land. Drawing near the island 
we found ourselves in a new and strange wonder- 
land. There was but a bare, jagged ridge of rock 
cut out in places into great cones and pyramids. 
Yonder was one shaped like a titanic bee-hive and 
about it swarmed a vast throng of sea birds in lieu 
of bees. Off toward the farther end was a rock 
with a little archway cut through it near the top. 
The rocks were of a light pinkish or cream color, 
from the guano upon them, interspersed with 
patches of pale green where some mosses or lichens 
had taken root. Lower down, where the waves 
dashed upon them, they were clean and almost 



^A Trip to the Farallones 57 

black in color, while in beautiful contrast to their 
somber hue the breakers were shattered into white 
foam and pale green opaline tints. But that 
which interested us most was the vast assemblage 
of birds. Every cranny upon the face of the rough, 
granitic cliffs was alive with murres, uttering their 
characteristic note, some at rest, some fluttering 
and scrambling or bobbing their heads, the whole 
scene being one of indescribably weird animation, 
and unlike anything else imaginable unless it be 
the witches in Faust on Walpurgis night. Here 
and there the black figure of a cormorant upon her 
nest was noticed, or one would fly past with a fish 
in her bill, headed toward her young. Occasional- 
ly a puffin, or sea parrot, as he is aptly called — a 
queer fellow with his immense red bill — would pass 
our way. The most familiar birds were the western 
gulls, which flocked about the boat in considerable 
numbers, displaying their beautiful slate-blue man- 
tles and yellow, scarlet-spotted bills. They were at- 
tracted by the refuse of the men's breakfast which 
had been thrown overboard in the cove, but in spite 
of their fine plumage and graceful actions they 
proved to be disagreeable, noisy, quarrelsome birds. 
After our half hour of impatient waiting the 
eggers appeared on the cliff above us, and, lower- 
ing a skiff which hung suspended from a sling, 
rowed out to take us ashore. Once safely landed 
we climbed up the long, ladder stairway to the level 
bluff whence the roadway leads around to the light- 
house settlement. Having fasted for thirty-six 
hours it was annoying to be overcome by seasick- 
ness and to be compelled to take a cup of tea in 
lieu of breakfast. However, time was precious. 



58 Pathway to Western Literature 

and, as we had come on a scientific excursion, we 
were determined to make the best of it. The eggers 
started early on their morning's round, so we 
trudged along after them as briskly as we could. 

It may be well to digress a few moments to ex- 
plain the vocation of egging as carried on at the 
Farallones a few years ago. The «gg of the Cali- 
fornia murre was found to have possibilities, as a 
marketable commodity, of being converted into 
omelettes and sundry other mysterious dishes in 
the San Francisco restaurants. The shell is so 
tough that the eggs may be tossed about almost as 
freely as so many cobblestones, thus making the 
cargo an especially easy one to handle. A party 
of Greek fishermen made a practice of camping 
upon the Farallones during the egging season and 
gathering enough eggs to keep one of their largest 
craft constantly employed transporting them to 
town. Upon establishing themselves upon the 
island they would first go about the accessible area 
occupied by the birds and destroy every egg which 
could be found. A day or two later they would 
repeat their visit, gathering a large supply of fresh 
eggs. These visits were continued every second or 
third day of the season, until the resources of the 
birds were about exhausted. The eggers wore rope 
shoes to make their footing secure upon the dan- 
gerous, rocky ledges, and the fronts of their shirts 
were converted into great pockets in which to carry 
the plunder. Ropes, to which the men could cling 
as they advanced, were secured to the rocks in the 
more perilous places. The government has now 
wisely put a stop to this traffic, which was rapidly 



11 



The Oaks of Tulare 59 

depleting this locality of its sea birds. — From 
"Bird Notes Afield." 



[All copyright privileges are retained by the author.] 

THE OAKS OF TULAEE 

By Lillian Hinman Shuey 

GO up the broad valley, the far land, the fair 
land, 
Where the plain stretches on like a slumbering 
sea; 
Where rivers flow down from high mountains 
snow-crowned, 
And the wind seeks the desert to roam and be 
free. 
Go there when sweet April her soft showers carry 
To the wonderful grove land, the oaks of Tulare. 

Go there in bright June when the slow-creeping 
■shadows, 
In the rank meadow grasses lie dewy and cool ; 
The boughs all attune with the sky-larks and lin- 
nets, 
While the soft winds of summer the leafy courts 
rule. 
One still autumn day in thy green aisles to tarry 
Is forever to love thee, dear oaks of Tulare. 

I see the blue sky and the high fretted arches. 
And the moss-tangled branches all knotted and 
gray; 



60 Pathway to Western Literature 

Fond memory pictures the calm, sacred places 
AYhere I waited and loitered that happy June 
day. 
While Hope, eager-winged as some comforting 
fairy, 
Is alluring me back to the oaks of Tulare. 

Great oaks leading up to the steep sunny hillsides, 
Stretching down to the banks of the slow, wind- 
ing stream, 
I see, through thy vistas, the homestead, the cot- 
tage, 
And the pink-tinted orchards in radiance gleam. 
Some day may I rest there, long, glad years to 
tarry, 
In my wonderful grove land, the oaks of Tulare. 
— From ' ' California Sunshine. ' ' 



FEOM YUMA TO SALTON SEA 

By George Wharton James 

PURCHASING two boats at Yuma, one a flat- 
bottomed ordinary gig, stoutly built, with six 
oars, and the other a mere tub, or light scow, with 
flat bottom and stub nose, such as miners and pros- 
pectors have made to float down the Colorado River, 
our party of six whites left ''the city of torrid 
heat." There were Brown (partner of Burton 
Holmes, the well-known lecturer) ; Grip ton, of New 
York ; Van Anderson, of New York ; Judson, dean 
of Fine Arts Department of University of South- 

[From "The Wonders of the Colorado Desert," by George 
Wharton James. Copyright, 1906, by Edith E. Farns- 
worth.] 



From Yuma to Salt on Sea 61 

ern California ; Lea, missionary to the Yumas, and 
myself, whom the boys in fun called *' Commo- 
dore." 

We had been warned of the dangers and diffi- 
culties we were sure to encounter. There were 
some ten miles where the wild river ran through 
a mesquite forest, through which we should have 
to cut, push, force our way. Then if we succeeded 
in getting through the mesquite and reached 
Sharps — the point in ]\Iexico where the waters are 
taken and distributed through head-gates into the 
irrigating canals of the Imperial country — we 
should have some fifty miles of the Alamo River 
to run which had never before been done. The 
difference in level between the water at Sharps and 
at the Salton Sea is nearly three hundred feet, and 
a fall of three hundred feet in fifty miles surely 
meant rapids galore ; indeed we were warned that 
we should make the ' ' fifty miles in fifty minutes. ' ' 
Then the engineers assured us that the force of the 
flood had so scoured out the channel that the banks, 
from being mere ridges, were now high walls, 
thirty, forty, fifty and more feet high, and one 
great danger to be apprehended and guarded 
against was the fact that the rapid flow of the 
stream was constantly undermining certain por- 
tions of these banks and they fell into the stream 
in such vast quantity that they would destroy or 
sink any boat unfortunate enough to be under 
them. This was a serious enough danger, as we 
afterwards learned, when we saw thousands of tons 
of earth fall, sending up great waves which came 
near swamping our boats. 

Certain custom-house officers, whom we met as- 



62 Patliway to Vv^estei^n Literature 

sured us that we should all be good ship-carpenters 
before our trip was concluded, and another desert 
humorist warned us to be ready with an axe so 
that when snags came through the bottom of our 
boats we could cut them off. Then, said he, ''You'll 
have enough from what you've cut off to use as 
firewood. ' ' 

We were a jolly party when we set out from 
Yuma. Easily we drifted with the current, our 
artist impatient all the time to catch the marvelous 
colors that seemed to be produced that evening for 
his especial delectation. I shall never forget his 
delight when I pulled inshore and called out, 
*'Camp for the night." Forgetful of everything, 
he jumped out and came near being swallowed up 
in the quick: -nd, for here there is little or no clay 
to make wet parts of the banks secure. AVithout 
waiting, however, to cleanse himself from the mud, 
he fixed his easel and in a few moments was obliv- 
ious to the world in the revelry of color the sunset 
was giving him. 

By noon the next day we were examining the 
work being done for the permanent head-gate, a 
magnificent reinforced concrete structure that is to 
receive the main supply of water for the Imperial 
region. 

Later in the day we came down to the scene of 
the desperate efforts — six in number — made to con- 
trol the unexpected flood of the Colorado, already 
described. 

A mile or so below this point we reached the busy 
and bustling camp of the lower intake, with store, 
bakery, large dining tents, doctor's office, steam 
engines, pile-drivers, centrifugal suction pumps. 



From Yuma to Salton Sea 63 

electric light plants, all revealing the great activity 
and determined pressure of the work. All the men 
that could possibly be used were working day and 
night on the construction of the Rock wood head- 
gate. 

Here our Indians joined us for the main part of 
the trip. Talk about Indians being fools! They 
were both keen, observing, wide-awake, daring, 
serene in the face of danger, self-contained and 
hard-working. There's many a white man who 
would look down on these ''savages" who could 
not begin to compare with them in intelligence and 
practical usefulness. 

Leaving the lower intake in three boats with six 
whites and these two Indians we started down the 
Alamo — as the canal should properly be termed. 
For the first ten miles it was plain, easy, smooth 
floating on the bosom of a great river, for, as I 
have shown, all the water of the Colorado was pour- 
ing through the ''temporary cut" into it. The 
great volume had v/idened and deepened the chan- 
nel until now it was no longer a "canal," but a 
mighty river, nearly 1,000 feet across. 

At the end of this ten miles our troubles began. 
As we had been warned, we found the river had 
left its bed and overflowed the country in every 
direction, in all of which was a mesquite forest. 
The mesquite, for all practical purposes where man 
is concerned, should be called the mescratcli, for its 
thorns are large, sharp and penetrating. As the 
diminished current bore us on we ran end on, 
stern on, sidewise, anyhow, into these mesquite 
thorns. I was in the front boat, in the bow, seeking 
the way. As the stream divided and subdivided it 



64 Pathway to Western Literature 

required speedy observation to tell which was the 
larger current and follow it, and Jim and I were 
kept very busy. There was no time given for de- 
cision, for we were borne on into one of the waiting 
trees, ready to pierce us from ''stem to stern" with 
its poisonous thorns. I learned to ''take" them 
head on as a goat takes its foes. Pulling my broad- 
brimmed sombrero over my ears, lifting up my coat 
collar and lowering my head I "butted in." But 
the fun came when we stuck there. Fun? Oh, it 
was great, to find yourself lodged in the heart of 
the branches of a mesquite, the thorns making 
fresh punctures in your tires at very movement, 
and the uneasy current beneath swaying and 
swinging you to and fro ! Many a time we had to 
resort to machete, hatchet or axe and literally chop 
our way through. Then, as the many divisions and 
diversions of the current reduced the flow of water, 
Ave ran on to sandbars in these mesquites and for 
hours at a time we had to wade in the water, up 
to our middles, often sinking in the quicksands up 
to our knees and higher, lifting, pushing, pulling, 
straining to get our boats along, while the mesquite 
thorns got in their work. 

And the joy of it was increased as night came 
on. We were still in the thick of it. No place to 
camp. Not a sign of dry bank anywhere. There 
was nothing for us but to stop in the first Hreak 
big enough for three boats to be tied side by side, 
for misery loves and needs com^pany, and eating 
our cold supper, scratched from top to toe, wet 
through, muddy, bedraggled, and wretched in ap- 
pearance, our "joy" was added to by a heavy 



From Yuma to Salton Sea 65 

downpour of rain. Physically we were so miser- 
able that it made us laugh. 

Where were we to sleep 1 

Nowhere but in the boats. Now it cannot be 
conceded that the slats at the bottom of a boat are 
at all conducive to sleep, especially when the slats 
are wet and very muddy. With evident shrinking 
these scions of noble houses stretched out their 
blankets. Brownie and Lea took the scow, the two 
Indians the bow of the big boat, Grippie the wide 
stern-seat, to which he built an extension for his 
feet, and Van on the slats below, while I had the 
other small boat to myself. 

My! how it did pour, and I guess those boats 
leaked extra on purpose. Wet through, I awoke to 
find Van wringing out his blankets, and at another 
time to hear Grippie laughing as if he would burst. 
''What's up?" I asked, to which he gave the in- 
telligible response, ''I'm laughing because I'm so 
miserable. ' ' 

No hot coffee ! no hot steak ! no steaming fried 
onions ! no hot anything, except a hot temper ! But 
we had vowed we would "grin and bear" whatever 
came along, so with "brave hearts and dauntless 
spirits" we swallowed a cold biscuit and started on. 

It was four times worse that morning than it 
had been the preceding day. Hour after hour we 
toiled along, up to the waist in water, chopping, 
cutting, pushing, pulling, and getting scratched, 
mainly the latter. Several times we had to cut 
down mesquite trees that completely blocked our 
way, and I never knew Before how hard it was to 
cut down a tree below the water line. For, of 
course, if the stump was left high enough to pre- 



66 Pathivay to Western Literaticre 

vent our boats going over them, we might as well 
have left the trees standing. 

Hour after hour it kept up, until at last peace 
reigned within, for we were back again in the main 
current and channel. The contour of the country 
here is such that, while a small part of the water 
had escaped and flowed off by way of the Rio 
Padrones, the larger amount converges and re- 
enters the banks of the Alamo at a point called 
Seven Wells. As soon as we could we camped, 
spread out our bedding to dry, while Brownie made 
sweet music with steak, onions, potatoes and corn 
on the frying-pan and stew-kettles. 

That night in camp on the Alamo we uneasily 
tossed on our blankets, for all of us had a number 
of thorns deep seated in various and many parts 
of our systems. While the thorns in our bodies 
made our sleep that night somewhat disturbed, it 
was a great improvement upon the night we spent 
in the boats. 

The following day we had reasonably good row- 
ing, though the wind arose and blew dead against 
us for several miles. But with a fair current in 
our favor we were able to make headway. 

That afternoon we reached Sharps, the point in 
Mexico where the waters of the river are taken 
and diverted into the canals of the Imperial reg- 
ion. Leaving one of our boats here, we were soon 
gliding easily along down the strong current. 
There was a trifle of nervousness at first, lest we 
get too far apart, and one or the other of us get 
into trouble, so the order was, "Keep close to- 
gether, and listen for each other's signals." Our 
first rapid gave us quite a little thrill. It was noth- 



From Yuma to Salton Sea 67 

ing very great or dangerous, but to hear the roar 
and rush, and swish and dash of the water, and to 
see the rising and falling, the spray and spume, and 
the marked descent of the whole river for fifty feet 
or more, led us to wonder if we'd get through all 
right. Indian Jim at the oars and I with the steer- 
ing oar, we sent our boat right into the heart of it, 
and in a moment we were rising and falling, toss- 
ing and bouncing, from one wave to another. We 
shipped a little water, but not enough to scare us, 
so it was with bolder hearts we ran the next and 
the next. 

Soon the lookout called, ''Two water-tanks 
ahead, ' ' and when we all arose to see, there loomed 
before us on the right, the tanks of the power house 
at Holtville. We tied up here, for three of our 
party, Brownie, Gripton and Lea, had to leave us, 
and Indian Joe went with them. They took team 
for Imperial, while Van Anderson, Indian Jim and 
I were left to run the rapids alone. 

The question arose in my mind : Shall we go in 
two boats or one? The square-nosed scow had 
served us so well I hated to part with it, so with- 
out consulting the others I decided to handle it 
myself. We started, and almost immediately ran 
into a ''nasty'' place. The railway bridge crosses 
the Alamo a short distance from where we were 
camped. It rests upon piles which stand obliquely 
to the course of the river. The result was that my 
boat was swept down and struck the piles, swerved 
into a snag with a lot of branches which had caught 
in nearly the same spot, and came near upsetting. 
There I was, held fast by the force of the current, 
and imprisoned in the arms of the snag. It took 



68 Pathway to Western Literature 

quite a time of pulling, pushing and cutting be- 
fore I got loose. Then on we went again. 

That was the beginning of the real fun of the 
trip. That afternoon and the next day we must 
have run over fifty rapids, some short, some long, 
some rough and dangerous, but most of them just 
exhilarating and exciting. How one's blood tingled 
with the dash and roar, the speed and the tossing, 
and how one 's hands, wrists and arms had to work 
to keep the boat safe while in the middle of the 
rapids! We had no great rocks to contend with, 
but something equally dangerous. The rapids were 
filled with heavy masses of '* nigger-head" clay, 
and once or twice I got ugly bumps on these 
*' heads" that shook the boat from end to end and 
nearly toppled me head over heels. 

In several places the river widened out for half 
a mile, or even a mile, and the flats were covered 
with ducks, geese and pelicans. I think I saw more 
of these aquatic birds in these two or three days 
than I had seen in the whole of my previous life. 
In some cases we were allowed to come as near to 
them as fifty feet, and with a gun an expert could 
have had his choice out of the thousands. 

And now we experienced the reality of one of the 
dangers against which we had been warned and that 
I had all along foreseen. The boats were about fifty 
feet apart. We were in the radius of a great curve. 
The mad river was here boring under the bank, 
which was fully forty feet high. No one who has 
not seen the cutting, or, literally, the auger-like bor- 
ing power, of this river in such places can believe 
the extent of its work. It cut in deeply and re- 
moved the entire foundation of the bank for ten, 



From Yuma to Salton Sea 69 

fifteen, even twenty feet. Then, without a pre- 
monitory warning, the whole bank for fifteen or 
twenty feet back, dropped with a terrific splash in- 
to the river. And it fell off as if cut with some 
gigantic machine, almost as straight as the cutter 
slices a bar of soap. Both boats were almost 
swamped by the great weaves that ensued, but for- 
tunately neither of us was immediately under the 
bank, or this account would have had a more som- 
ber ending. 

That night we camped at the deserted shack of a 
settler who had "taken up" a homestead. We saw 
many pathetic evidences of a woman's presence in 
the rude and simple efforts to care for a woman's 
comfort. Just before the shack, the rapids dashed 
on to the sea. Early in the morning we started 
and for an hour had hard rowing. The banks were 
all gone, there was nothing but flats over which 
the river distributed itself, making it very hard to 
find the main current. The wind began to blow 
and ere long a perfect gale made waves which added 
to our difficulties. Soon I w^as completely stranded. 
I had been aground several times before, but this 
was permanent. The wind was blowing furiously 
and my companions could not hear my shouts, but 
fortunately one of them saw my predicament and 
they ran ashore and waited. There was but one 
thing to do. That was for me to go to them. 
Jumping into the water, and sinking up almost to 
the middle in quicksands, I struggled against the 
wind to reach them. Each time I pulled myself 
out of the treacherous sand the wind blew me back, 
and for a while I despaired of making headway. 
But keeping desperately at it I succeeded at last in 



70 Pathway to Western Literature 

reaching their boat, where I fell over breathless, 
speechless and exhausted. AVhen I was able to 
move Ave all jumped out into the water and lifted 
and pushed the boat back to Avhere the other was 
stranded. There we took out everything of value, 
and said our final farewell to it. 

But our difficulties were not over. Though the 
three of us handled the oars, the six of them made 
so little headway that two hours' rowing advanced 
us not more than half a mile. By this time the 
waves were running high and furious, and Jim, 
the Indian, got scared. He cried out: "I no like 
this river. Pretty soon we tip over and this boat 
he sink. We no get there. ' ' 

"Are you scared, Jim?" I asked. 

"No!" he responded quickly, "no scared, but I 
no like 'em this river. ' ' 

Each time we got into the trough we shipped so 
much water that finally I decided to abandon the 
attempt to cross the sea. Giving the order, we 
turned stern to the wind and soon rowed over the 
flats, the water having been blown over them to a 
depth of several inches with the wind, and ran 
ashore opposite a large volcanic butte that stood 
out in the heart of the desert. 

We anchored the boat as well as we could and 
then proceeded to carry everything from the boat 
to the butte, where, pretty well above the then 
level of the sea, we piled them up, covered them 
with our bed-canvas and tied them down to the 
anchoring rocks. 

Then we started, each heavily laden with ca- 
meras, canteens and food, for the nearest point on 
the railway. The efflorescing salts made a yielding 



Lincoln, the Man of the People 71 

crust on the alkali soil in which we sank over the 
ankles at every step. One of my ankles was soon 
cut through and I suffered intensely. To add to 
our difficulties we soon came to the brink of a 
wide slough, far too deep for us to ford, and it 
was impossible to swim across heavy laden as we 
were. There was no other course than to go around 
it, and this added several weary miles to our tramp. 
At length, after full eighteen miles of a walk, 
wearied out but glad at the accomplishment of our 
trip, we reached Imperial Junction, from which 
point Indian Jim and I went to Yuma, while Van 
Anderson remained there all night, taking the 
morning train for Mecca. — From "The Wonders of 
the Colorado Desert.'' 



LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE 

By Edwin Markham 

\Y7HEN the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind 
W Hour, 

Greatening and darkening as it hurried on. 
She bent the strenuous Heavens and came down 
To make a man to meet the mortal need. 
She took the tried clay of the common road — 
Clay warm, yet with the genial heat of Earth, 
Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy ; 
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. 

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth ; 

The tang and odor of the primal things — 

The rectitude and patience of the rocks ; 

The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn ; 



72 Pathway to Western Literature 

The courage of the bird that dares the sea; 
The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; 
The pity of the snow that hides all scars; 
The loving kindness of the wayside well ; 
The tolerance and equity of light 
That gives as freely to the shrinking weed 
As to the great oak flaring to the wind — 
To the grave 's low hill as to the Matterhorn 
That shoulders out the sky. 

And so he came 
From prairie cabin up to Capitol, 
One fair Ideal led our chieftain on. 
Forevermore he burned to do his deed 
With the fine stroke and gesture of a king. 
He built the rail-pile as he built the State, 
Pouring his splendid strength through every blow. 
The conscience of him testing every stroke, 
To make his deed the measure of a man. 

So came the Captain with the mighty heart ; 
And when the step of Earthquake shook the house, 
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold. 
He held the ridge pole up, and spiked again 
The rafters of the Home. He held his place — 
Held the long purpose like a growing tree — 
Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. 
And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down 
As when a kingly cedar, green with boughs. 
Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, 
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. 

— From ''Lincoln and Other Poems.'' 



The Desert's Call 73 

THE DESERT'S CALL 

By Mary Austin 

IF one is inclined to wonder at first how so many 
dwellers came to be in the loneliest land that ever 
came out of God's hands, w^hat they do there and 
why they stay, one does not wonder so much after 
having lived there. None other than this long- 
brown land lays such a hold on the affections. The 
rainbow hills, the tender bluish mists, the luminous 
radiance of the spring, have the lotus charm. They 
trick the sense of time, so that once inhabitating 
there you always mean to go away without quite 
realizing that you have not done it. Men who have 
lived there, miners and cattlemen, will tell you this, 
not so fluently, but emphatically, cursing the land 
and going back to it. For one thing there is the 
divinest, cleanest air to be breathed anywhere in 
God 's world. Some day the world Avill understand 
that, and the little oases on the windy tops of the 
hills will harbor for healing its ailing, house-weary 
broods. There is promise there of great wealth in 
ores and earths, which is no wealth by reason of 
being so far removed from water and workable con- 
ditions, but men are bewitched by it and tempted 
to try the impossible. 

You should hear Salty Williams tell how he 
used to drive eighteen and twenty-mule teams from 
the borax marsh to Mojave, ninety miles, with the 
trail wagon full of water barrels. Hot days the 
mules would go so mad for drink that the clank of 
the water bucket set them into an uproar of hide- 
ous, maimed noises and a tangle of harness chains, 



74 Pathway to Western Literature 

while Salty would sit on the high seat with the 
sun glare heavy in his face, dealing out curses of 
pacification in a level, uninterested voice until the 
clamor fell off from sheer exhaustion. There was a 
line of shallow graves along that road ; they used to 
count on dropping a man or two of every new gang 
of coolies brought out in the hot season. But when 
he lost his swamper, smitten without warning at the 
noon hour, Salty quit his job; he said it was ''Too 
hot." The swamper he buried by the way with 
stones upon him to keep the coyotes from digging 
him up, and seven years later I read the penciled 
lines on the pine headboard, still bright and un- 
weathered. 

But before that, driving up on the Mojave stage, 
I met Salty again crossing Indian Wells, his face 
from the high seat, tanned and ruddy as a harvest 
moon, looming through the golden dust above his 
eighteen mules. The land had called him. 

The palpable sense of mystery in the desert air 
breeds fables, chiefly of lost treasure. Somewhere 
Avithin its stark borders, if one believes report, is a 
hill strewn with nuggets; one seamed with virgin 
silver; an old clayey water-bed where Indians 
scooped up earth to make cooking pots and shaped 
them reeking with pure gold. Old miners drifting 
about the desert edges, weathered into the semb- 
lance of the tawny hills, will tell you tales like 
those convincingly. After a little sojourn in that 
land you will believe them on their own account. — 
From ''The Land of Little Rain." 



The Great Basin 75 

THE GREAT BASIN 

By Col. John C. Fremont 

IN arriving at Utah Lake, we had completed an 
immense circuit of twelve degrees diameter 
north and south, and ten degrees east and west; 
and found ourselves, in May, 1844, on the same 
sheet of water which we had left in September, 
1843. The Utah is the southern limb of the Great 
Salt Lake; and thus we had seen that remarkable 
sheet of water both at its northern and southern 
extremity, and were able to fix its position at these 
two points. The circuit which we had made, and 
which had cost us eight months of time, and 3,500 
miles of traveling, had given us a view of Oregon 
and of North California from the Rocky Moun- 
tains to the Pacific Ocean, and of the two principal 
streams which form bays or harbors on the coast 
of that sea. Having completed this circuit, and 
being now about to turn our backs upon the Pacific 
slope of our continent, and to recross the Rocky 
Mountains, it is natural to look back upon our foot- 
steps and take some brief view of the leading fea- 
tures and general structure of the country we had 
traversed. These are peculiar and striking, and 
differ essentially from the Atlantic side of the 
country. The mountains all are higher, more nu- 
merous and more distinctly defined in their ranges 
and directions; and, what is so contrary to the 
natural order of formations, one of these ranges, 
which is near the coast (the Sierra Nevada and the 
Coast Range), presents higher elevations and peaks 
than any which are to be found in the Rocky moun- 



76 Pathway to Western Literature 

tains themselves. In our eight months' circuit, we 
were never out of sight of snow; and the Sierra 
Nevada, where we crossed it, was near 2,000 feet 
higher than the South Pass in the Rocky ]\Ioun- 
tains. In height, these mountains greatly exceed 
those of the Atlantic side, constantly presenting 
peaks which enter the region of perpetual snoAv; 
and some of them volcanic, and in a frequent state 
of activity. They are seen at great distances and 
guide the traveler in his course. 

The course and elevation of these ranges give 
direction to the rivers and character to the coast. 
No great river does, or can, take its rise below^ the 
Cascade and Sierra Nevada range ; the distance to 
the sea is too short to admit of it. The rivers of 
the San Francisco Bay, which are the largest after 
the Columbia, are local to that bay, and lateral to 
the coast, having their sources about on a line with 
the Dalles of the Columbia, and running each in 
a valley of its own, between the Coast range and 
the Cascade and Sierra Nevada range. The Colum- 
bia is the only river which traverses the whole 
breadth of the country, breaking through all the 
ranges, and entering the sea. Drawing its waters 
from a section of ten degrees of latitude in the 
Rocky Mountains, which are collected into one 
stream by three main forks (Lewis's, Clark's and 
the North fork) near the center of the Oregon 
Valley, this great river thence proceeds by a single 
channel to the sea, while its three forks lead each 
to a pass in the mountains, w^hich opens the way 
into the interior of the continent. This fact in re- 
lation to the rivers of this region, gives an immense 
value to the Columbia. Its mouth is the only inlet 



The Great Basin 77 

and outlet to and from the sea ; its three forks lead 
to the passes in the mountains ; it is, therefore, the 
only line of communication between the Pacific 
and the interior of North America; and all op- 
erations of war or commerce, of national or social 
intercourse, must be conducted upon it. This gives 
it a value beyond estimation, and would involve 
irreparable injury if lost. In this unity and con- 
centration of its waters, the Pacific side of our con- 
tinent differs entirely from the Atlantic side, where 
the waters of the Alleghany Mountains are dis- 
persed into many rivers, having their different en- 
trances into the sea, and opening many lines of 
communication with the interior. 

The Pacific Coast is equally different from that 
of the Atlantic. The coast of the Atlantic is low 
and open, indented with numerous bays, sounds 
and river estuaries, accessible everywhere and 
opening by many channels into the heart of the 
country. The Pacific Coast, on the contrary, is 
high and compact, with few bays, and but one that 
opens into the heart of the country. The imme- 
diate coast is what the seamen call iron-hound. A 
little within, it is skirted by two successive ranges 
of mountains, standing as ramparts between the 
sea and the interior of the country; and to get 
through which there is but one gate, and that nar- 
row and easily defended. This structure of the 
coast, backed by these tAvo ranges of mountains, 
with its concentration and unity of waters, gives 
to the country an immense military strength, and 
will probably render Oregon the most impregnable 
country in the world. 

Differing so much from the Atlantic side of our 



78 Pathway to Western Literature 

continent, in coast, mountains and rivers, the Pa- 
cific side differs from it in another most rare and 
singular feature — that of the Great Interior Basin, 
of which I have so often spoken, and the whole 
form and character of which I was so anxious to 
ascertain. Its existence is vouched for by such of 
the American traders and hunters as have some 
knowledge of that region; the structure of the 
Sierra Nevada range of mountains requires it to 
be there ; and my own observations confirm it. Mr. 
Joseph Walker, who is so well acquainted in those 
parts, informed me that, from the Great Salt Lake 
west, there was a succession of lakes and rivers 
which have no outlet to the sea, nor any connection 
with the Columbia, or with the Colorado or the 
Gulf of California. He described some of these 
lakes as being large, with numerous streams, and 
even considerable rivers falling into them. In fact, 
all concur in the general report of these interior 
rivers and lakes; and, for want of understanding 
the force and power of evaporation, which so soon 
establishes an equilibrium between the loss and 
supply of waters, the fable of whirlpools and sub- 
terraneous outlets has gained belief, as the only 
imaginable way of carrying off the waters which 
have no visible discharge. The structure of the 
country would require this formation of interior 
lakes; for the waters which would collect between 
the Rocky Mountains and the Sierra Nevada, not 
being able to cross this formidable barrier, nor to 
get to the Columbia or the Colorado, must natural- 
ly collect into reservoirs, each of which would have 
its little system of streams and rivers to supply it. 
This would be the natural effect; and what I saw 



The Great Basin 79 

went to confirm it. The Great Salt Lake is a for- 
mation of this kind, and quite a large one; and 
having many streams and one considerable river, 
400 or 500 miles long, falling into it. This lake and 
river I saw and examined myself ; and also saw the 
Wah-Satch and Bear River Mountains, which en- 
close the waters of the lake on the east, and con- 
stitute, in that quarter, the rim of the Great Basin. 
Afterwards, along the eastern base of the Sierra 
Nevada, where we traveled for forty-two days, I 
saw the line of lakes and rivers which lie at the 
foot of that Sierra and which Sierra is the western 
rim of the basin. In going down Lewis's fork and 
the main Columbia, I crossed only inferior streams 
coming in from the left, such as could draw their 
water from a short distance only ; and I often saw 
the mountains at their heads white with snow — 
which, all accounts said, divided the waters of the 
desert from those of the Columbia, and which 
could be no other than the range of mountains 
which form the rim of the basin in its northern 
side. And in returning from California along the 
Spanish trail, as far as the head of the Santa Clara 
fork of the Rio Virgen^ I crossed only small streams 
making their way south to the Colorado, or lost in 
sand (as the Mo-hah-ve) ; while to the left, the 
lofty mountains, their summits white with snow, 
were often visible, and which must have turned 
water to the north as well as to the south, and thus 
constituted, on this part, the southern rim of the 
basin. At the head of the Santa Clara fork, and in 
the Vegas de Santa Clara, we crossed the ridge 
which parted the two systems of waters. We en- 
tered the basin at that point, and have traveled in 



80 Pathivay to Western Literature 

it ever since, having its southeastern rim (the 
Wah-satch Mountain) on the right, and crossing 
the streams which flow down into it. The existence 
of the basin is, therefore, an established fact in my 
mind ; its extent and contents are yet to be better 
ascertained. It cannot be less than 400 or 500 miles 
each way, and must lie principally in the Alta Cali- 
fornia, the demarcation latitude of 42 degrees 
probably cutting a segment from the north part of 
the rim. Of its interior but little is known. It is 
called a desert, and, from what I saw of it, sterility 
may be its prominent characteristic; but where 
there is so much water, there must be some oasis. 

The great river and the great lake, reported, 
may not be equal to the report; but where there 
is so much snow, there must be streams ; and where 
there is no outlet, there must be lakes to hold the 
accumulated waters, or sands to swallow them up. 
In this eastern part of the basin, containing Sevier, 
Utah, and the Great Salt Lakes, and the rivers and 
creeks falling into them, we know there is good soil 
and good grass, adapted to civilized settlements. 
In the western part, on Salmon Trout River, and 
some other streams, the same remark may He made. 

The contents of this great basin are yet to be ex- 
amined. That it is peopled, we know ; but miser- 
ably and sparsely. From all that I heard and saw, 
I should say that humanity here appeared in its 
lowest form, and in its most elementary state. Dis- 
persed in single families ; Avithout firearms ; eating 
seeds and insects; digging roots ^(and hence their 
name) — ^such is the condition of the greater part. 
Others are a degree higher, and live in communities 
upon some lake or river that supplies fish and from 



The Great Basin 81 

which they repulse the miserable digger. The rab- 
bit is the largest animal known in this desert; its 
flesh affords a little meat; and their bag-like cov- 
ering is made of its skins. The wild sage is their 
only wood, and here it is of extraordinary size — 
sometimes a foot in diameter and six or eight feet 
high. It serves for fuel, for building material, for 
shelter to the rabbits, and for some sort of cover- 
ing for the feet and legs in cold weather. Such 
are the accounts of the inhabitants and productions 
of the Great Basin; and which, though imperfect, 
must have some foundation, and excite our desire 
to know the whole. 

The whole idea of such a desert, and such a peo- 
ple, is a novelty in our country, and excites Asiatic, 
not American, ideas. Interior basins, with their 
own systems of lakes and rivers, and often sterile, 
are common enough in Asia ; people still in the ele- 
mentary state of families, living in deserts, with no 
other occupation than the mere animal search for 
food, may still be seen in that ancient quarter of 
the globe ; but in America such things are new and 
strange, unknown and unsuspected, and discredited 
when related. But I flatter myself that what is 
discovered, though not enough to satisfy curiosity, 
is sufficient to excite it, and that subsequent ex- 
plorations will complete what has been commenced. 

This account of the Great Basin, it will He re- 
membered, belongs to the Alta California, and has 
no application to Oregon, whose capabilities may 
justify a separate remark. Referring to my journal 
for particular descriptions, and for sectional 
boundaries between good and bad districts, I can 
only say, in general and comparative terms, that 



82 Pathway to Western Literature 

in that branch of agriculture which implies the 
cultivation of grains and staple crops it would be 
inferior to the Atlantic States, though many parts 
are superior for wheat, while in the rearing of 
flocks and herds it would claim a high place. Its 
grazing capabilities are great ; and even in the in- 
digenous grass now there, an element of individual 
and national wealth may be found. In fact, the 
valuable grasses begin within one hundred and 
fifty miles of the Missouri frontier and extend to 
the Pacific Ocean. East of the Rocky Mountains 
it is the short, curly grass, on which the buffalo de- 
lights to feed (whence its name of buffalo), and 
which is still good when apparently dry and dead. 
West of those mountains it is a larger growth, in 
clusters, and hence called bunch-grass, and which 
has a second or fall growth. Plains and mountains 
both exhibit them, and I have seen good pasturage 
at an elevation of ten thousand feet. In this spon- 
taneous product the trading or traveling caravans 
can find subsistence for their animals, and in mil- 
itary operations any number of cavalry may be 
moved, and any number of cattle may be driven; 
and thus men and horses may be supported on long 
expeditions, and even in winter, in the sheltered 
situations. 

Commercially, the value of the Oregon country 
must be great, washed as it is by the North Pacific 
Ocean — fronting Asia — producing many of the ele- 
ments of commerce — mild and healthy in its cli- 
mate — and becoming, as it naturally will, a thor- 
oughfare for the East India and China trade. — 
From "A Narrative of Adventures and Explora- 
tions. ' ' 



The Man of the Trail 83 

THE MAN OP THE TRAIL 

By Henry Meade Bland 

A SPIRIT that pulses forever 
Like the fiery heart of a boy ; 
A forehead that lifts to the sunlight, 

And is wreathed forever in joy ; 
A muscle that holds like the iron 

That binds in the prisoner steam: 
Yea, these are the trail-man's glory! 
Yea, these are the trail-man's dream! 

An eye that catches the beauty 

That gleams from the mountain and sky ; 
And an ear that awakes to the song 

Of the storm, as it surges on high ; 
A sense that garners the splendor 

Of sun, moon, or starry gleam: 
Lo, these are the trail-man 's glory ! 

Lo, these are the trail-man 's dream ! 

The wild, high climb o 'er the mountains ; 

The lodge by the river's brim; 
The glance at the fierce cloud-horses 

As they plunge o'er the range's rim; 
The Juniper's balm for the nostrils; 

The dash in the cool trout-stream : 
Yea, these are the trail-man 's glory ! 

Yea, these are the trail-man's dream! 

The ride down fair river canyon, 

Where the wild oats grow breast high; 

And the shout of the quail on the hillside ; 
The turtle-dove flashing by; 



84 Pathway to Western Literature 

An eye 'round the fragrant fire, 
Where the eyes of a comrade beam : 

Yea, these are the trail-man 's glory ! 
Yea, these are the trail-man's dream! 

— From ''Out West Magazine." 



ON AN ALASKAN TRAIL 

By Ella Higginsox 

THE trip over "the trail" from Valdez to the 
Tanana country is one of the most fascinat- 
ing in Alaska. 

At seven o'clock of a July morning five horses 
stood at our hotel door. Two gentlemen of Valdez 
had volunteered to act as escort to the three ladies 
in our party for a trip over the trail. 

I examined with suspicion the red-bay horse that 
had been assigned to me. 

' ' Is he gentle ? " I asked of one of the gentlemen. 

"Oh, I don't know. You can't take any one's 
word about a horse in Alaska. They call regular 
buckers ' gentle ' up here. The only way to find out 
is to try them. ' ' 

This w^as encouraging. 

"Do you mean to tell me," said one of the other 
ladies, "that you don't know whether these horses 
have ever been ridden by women ? ' ' 

"No, I do not know." 

She sat down on the steps. 

' ' Then there 's no trail for me. I don 't know how 
to ride nor to manage a horse." 

After many moments of persuasion, we got her 



[Copyright by The Macmillan Company, 1908.] 



On an Alaskan Trail 85 

upon a mild-eyed horse, saddled with a cross sad- 
dle. The other lady and myself had chosen side 
saddles, despite the assurance of almost every man 
in Valdez that we could not get over the trail sit- 
ting a horse sidewise, without accident. 

"Your skirt '11 catch in the brush and pull you 
off," said one, cheerfully. 

"Your feet '11 hit against rocks in the canyon," 
said another. 

"You can't balance as even on a horse's back 
sideways, and if you don't balance even along the 
precipice in the canyon your horse '11 go over," 
said a third. 

"Your horse is sure to roll over once or twice in 
the glacier streams, and you can save yourself if 
you're riding astride," said a fourth. 

"You're certain to get into quicksand somewhere 
on the trip, and if your weight is all on one side 
of your horse you'll pull him down and he'll fall 
on top of you," said a fifth. 

In the face of all these cheerful horrors, our es- 
cort said: 

"Ride any way you please. If a woman can 
keep her head, she will pull through everything in 
Alaska. Besides, we are not going along for noth- 
ing!" 

So we chose side-saddles, that having been our 
manner of riding since childhood. 

We had waited three weeks for the glacial flood 
at the eastern side of the town to subside, and 
could wait no longer. It was roaring within ten 
steps of the back door of our hotel ; and in two min- 
utes after mounting, before our feet were fairly 
7 



86 Pathway to Western Literature 

settled in the stirrups, we had ridden down the 
sloping bank into the boiling, white waters. 

One of the gentlemen rode ahead as guide. I 
watched his big horse go down in the flood — down, 
down ; the water rose to its knees, to its rider's feet, 
to liis knees — 

He turned his head and called cheerfully, * ' Come 
on ! " and we went on — one at a time, as still as the 
dead, save for the splashing and snorting of our 
horses. I felt the water, icy cold, rising high, high- 
er ; it almost washed my foot from the red-slippered 
stirrup ; then I felt it mounting higher, my skirts 
floated out on the flood, and then fell, limp, about 
me. My glance kept flying from my horse's head 
to our guide and back again. He was tall, and his 
horse was tall. 

"When it reaches liis waist," was my agonized 
thought, "it will be over my head!" 

The other gentleman rode to my side. 

"Keep a firm hold of your bridle," said he 
gravely, "and watch your horse. If he falls — " 

"Falls! In here!'' 

' ' They do sometimes ; one must be prepared. If 
he falls — of course you can swim ? ' ' 

' ' I never swam a stroke in my life ; I never even 
tried!" 

"Is it possible?" said he, in astonishment. 
"Why we w^ould not have advised you to come at 
this time if we had known that. We took it for 
granted that you wouldn't think of going unless 
you could swim." 

"Oh," ..aid I, sarcastically, "do all the women 
in Valdez swim?" 

"No," he answered, gravely, "but then, they 



On an Alaskan Trail 87 

don't go over the trail. Well, we can only hope 
that he will not fall. When he breaks into a 
swim — " 

**Swim! Will he do that?" 

*'0h, yes, he is liable to swim any moment now.'* 

*'What will I do then?" I asked, quite humbly; 
I could hear tears in my own voice. He must have 
heard them, too, his voice was so kind as he ans- 
wered. 

*'Sit as quietly and as evenly as possible, and 
lean slightly forward in the saddle; then trust to 
heaven and give him his head." 

''Does he give you any warning?" 

''Not the faintest— ah-h!" 

Well might he say "ah-h!" for my horse was 
swimming. Well might we all say "ah-h !" for one 
wild glance ahead revealed to my glimmering vis- 
ion that all our horses were swimming. 

I never knew before that horses swam so low 
down in the water. I wished when I could see 
nothing but my horse 's ears that I had not been so 
stubborn about the saddle. 

The water itself was different from any water I 
had ever seen. It did not flow like a river; it 
boiled, seethed, whirled, rushed ; it pushed up into 
an angry bulk that came down over us like a del- 
uge. I had let go of my reins and, leaning for- 
ward in the saddle, was clinging to my horse's 
mane. The rapidly flowing water gave me the im- 
pression that we were being swept down the stream. 

The roaring grew louder in my ears; I was so 
dizzy that I could no longer distinguish any ob- 
ject; there was just a blur of brown and white 
water, rising, falling, about me; the sole thought 



88 Pathway to Western Literature 

that remained was that I was being swept out to 
sea with my struggling horse. 

Suddenly there was a shock which, to my tor- 
tured nerves, seemed like a ship striking on a rock. 
It was some time before I realized that it had been 
caused by my horse striking bottom. He Avas walk- 
ing — staggering, rather — and plunging; his whole 
neck appeared, then his shoulders; I released his 
mane mechanically, as I had acted in all things 
since mounting, and gathered up the reins. 

''That was a nasty one, wasn't it?" said my 
escort, joining me. ' * I stayed behind to be of serv- 
ice if you required it. We're getting out now, but 
there are at least ten or fifteen as bad on the trail 
— if not worse." 

As if anything could be worse ! 

I chanced to lift my eyes then, and I got a clear 
view of the ladies ahead of me. Their appearance 
was of such a nature that I at once looked myself 
over — and saw myself as others saw me ! It was 
the first and only time that I have ever wished 
myself at home when I have been traveling in 
Alaska. 

''Cheer up!" called our guide, over his broad 
shoulder. "The worst is yet to come." 

He spoke more truthfully than even he knew. 
There was one stream after another — and each 
seemed really worse than the one that went before. 
From Valdez Glacier the ice, melted by the hot 
July sun, was pouring out in a dozen streams that 
spread over the immense flats between the town and 
the mouth of the Lowe River. There were miles 
and miles of it. Scarcely would we struggle out of 
one place that had been washed out deep — and 



On an Alaskan Trail 89 

how deep we never knew until we were into it — 
when we would be compelled to plunge into an- 
other. 

At last, wet and chilled, after several narrow 
escapes from whirlpools and quicksand, we reached 
a level road leading through a cool wood for sev- 
eral miles. From this, of a sudden, we began to 
climb. So steep was the ascent and so narrow the 
path — no wider than the horse's feet — that my 
horse seemed to have a series of movable humps on 
him, like a camel ; and riding sidewise, I could only 
lie forward and cling desperately to his mane, to 
avoid a shameful descent over his tail. 

Actually, there were steps cut in the hard soil 
for the horses to climb upon! They pulled them- 
selves up with powerful plunges. On both sides of 
this narrow path the grass, or ' * feed, " as it is called, 
grew so tall that we could not see one another's 
heads above it as we rode; yet it had been grow- 
ing only six weeks. 

Mingling with young alders, fireweed, devil's 
club and elderberry — the latter sprayed out in scar- 
let — it formed a network across our path, through 
which we could only force our way with closed 
eyes, blind as Love. 

Bad as the ascent was, the descent was worse. 
The horse's humps all turned the other way, and 
we turned with them. It was only by constant 
watchfulness that we kept ourselves from sliding 
over their heads. 

After another ascent, we emerged into the open 
upon the brow of a cliff. Below us stretched the 
valley of the Lowe River. Thousands of feet be- 
low wound and looped the blue reaches of the 



90 PatJnvay to Western Literature 

river, set here and there with islands of glistening 
sand or rosy fireweed, while over all trailed the 
silver mists of morning. One elderberry island 
was so set with scarlet sprays of berries that from 
our heights no foliage could b'e seen. 

After this came a scented, primeval forest, 
through which we rode in silence. Its charm was 
too elusive for speech. Our horse's feet sank into 
the moss without sound. There was no under- 
brush ; only dim aisles and arcades fashioned from 
the gray trunks of trees. The pale green foliage 
floating above us completely shut out the sun. Soft, 
gray, mottled moss dripped from the limbs and 
branches of the spruce trees in delicate, lacy fes- 
toons. 

Soon after emerging from this dream-like wood 
we reached Camp Comfort, where we paused for 
lunch. 

This is one of the most comfortable road houses 
in Alaska. It is situated in a low, green valley; 
the river winds in front, and snow mountains float 
around it. The air is very sweet. 

It is only ten miles from Yaldez, but those ten 
miles are equal to fifty in taxing the endurance. 

We found an excellent vegetable garden at 
Camp Comfort. Pansies and other flowers were as 
large and fragrant as I have ever seen, the coloring 
of the pansies being unusually rich. They told us 
that only two other Avomen had passed over the 
trail during the summer. 

While our lunch was being prepared, we stood 
about the immense stove in the immense living 
room and tried to dry our clothing. 

The room was at least thirty feet square. It had 



On an Alaskan Trail 91 

a high ceiling and rough board floor. In one cor- 
ner was a piano, in another a phonograph. The 
ceiling was hung with all kinds of trail apparel 
used by men, including long boots and heavy stock- 
ings, guns and other weapons, and other articles 
that added a picturesque and even startling touch 
to the big room. 

In one end was a bench, buckets of water, tin 
cups hanging on nails, washbowls, and a little wavy 
mirror swaying on the wall. The gentlemen of our 
party played the phonograph while we removed the 
dust and mud which we had gathered on our jour- 
ney ; afterward, we played the phonograph. 

Then we all stood happily about the stove to 
''dry out,'' and listened to our host's stories of 
the miners who came out from the Tanana coun- 
try laden with gold. As many as seventy men, 
each bearing a fortune, have slept at Camp Com- 
fort on a single night. We slept there ourselves 
on our return journey, but our riches were in 
other things than gold, and there Avas no need to 
guard them. Any man or woman may go to 
Alaska and enrich himself or herself forever, as we 
did, if he or she have the desire. Not only is 
there no need to guard our riches, but, on the con- 
trary, we are glad to give freely to whomsoever 
would have. 

Each man, we were told, had his own way of 
caring for his gold ! One leaned a gunny-sack full 
of it outside the house, where it stood all night un- 
guarded, supposed to be a sack of old clothing, from 
the carelessness with which it was left there. The 
owner slept calmly in the attic, surrounded by 
men whose gold made their hard pillows. 



92 Pathway to Western Literature 

They told us, too, of the men who came back, 
dull-eyed and empty handed, discouraged and foot- 
sore. They slept long and heavily ; there was noth- 
ing for them to guard. 

Every road house has its "talking machine," 
wdth many of the most expensive records. No one 
can appreciate one of these machines until he goes 
to Alaska. Its influence is not to be estimated in 
those far, lonely places, where other music is not. 

In a big store ''to Westward" we witnessed a 
scene that would touch any heart. The room v/as 
filled with people. There were passengers and of- 
ficers from the ship, miners, Russian half-breeds, 
and full-blooded Aleuts. After several records 
had filled the room Avith melody. Calve, herself, 
sang ''The Old Folks at Home." As that voice of 
golden velvet rose and fell, the unconscious work- 
ings of the faces about me spelled out their life 
tragedies. At last, one big fellow in a flannel shirt 
started for the door. As he reached it, another 
man caught his sleeve and whispered huskily: 

"Where you goin'. Bill?" 

"Oh, anywheres," he made answer roughly, to 
cover his emotion; "anywheres, so's I can't hear 
that — piece" — and it was not one of the least of 
Calv(Vs compliments. 

Music in Alaska brings the thought of home; 
and it is the thought of home that plays upon the 
heart-strings of the North. The hunger is always 
there — hidden, repressed, but waiting — and at the 
first touch of music it leaps forth and casts its 
shadow upon the face. Who knows but that it is 
this very heart-hunger that puts the universal 
human look into Alaskan eyes? 



On an Alaskan Trail 93 

After a good lunch at Camp Comfort we re- 
sumed our journey. There was another bit of en- 
chanting forest ; then, of a sudden, we were in the 
famed Keystone Canyon. 

Here the scenery is enthralling. Solid walls of 
shaded gray stone rise straight from the river to a 
height of from twelve to fifteen hundred feet. 
Along one cliff winds the trail, in many places no 
wider than the horse's feet. One feels that he 
must only breathe with the land side of him, lest 
the mere weight of his breath on the other side 
should topple him over the sheer, dizzy precipice. 

It was amusing to see every woman lean toward 
the rock cliff. Not for the gold of Klondike would 
I have willingly given one look down into the gulf, 
sinking away, almost under my horse's feet. Some- 
where in those purple depths I knew that the river 
was roaring, white and swollen, between its nar- 
row stone walls 

We finally reached a place where the descent 
was almost perpendicular and the trail painfully 
narrow. The horses sank to their haunches and 
slid down, taking gravel and stones down with 
them. I had been imploring to be permitted to 
walk ; but now, being far in advance of all but one, 
I did not ask permission. I simply slipped off my 
horse and left him for the others to Bring with 
them. The gentleman with me was forced to do 
the same. 

We paused for a time to rest and to enjoy the 
most beautiful waterfall I saw in Alaska — Bridal 
Veil. It is on the opposite side of the canyon, and 
has a slow, musical fall of six hundred feet. 

When we went on, the other members of our 



94 Patlnvay to Western Literature 

party had not yet come up with us, nor had our 
horses appeared. In the narrowest of all narrow 
places I was walking ahead, when, turning a sharp 
corner, we met a government pack-train, face to 
face. 

The bell horse stood still and looked at me with 
big eyes, evidently as scared at the sight of a wo- 
man as an old prospector who has not seen one for 
years. 

I looked at him with eyes as big as his own. 
There was only one thing to do. Behind us was a 
narrow, V-shaped cave in the stone wall, not more 
than four feet high and three deep. Into this we 
backed, Grecian-bend wise, and waited. 

A¥e waited a very long time. The horse stood 
still, blowing his breath loudly from steaming nos- 
trils, and contemplating us. I never knew before 
that a horse could express his opinion of a person 
so plainly. Around the curve we could hear whips 
cracking and men swearing; but the horse stood 
there and kept his suspicious eyes on me. 

* ' I '11 stay here till dark, ' ' his eyes said, ' ' but you 
don't get me past a thing like that!'^ 

I didn't mind his looking, but his snorting 
seemed like an insult. 

At last a man pushed past the horse. When he 
saw us backed gracefully up into the V-shaped 
cave, he stood as still as the horse. Finding that 
neither he nor my escort could think of anything 
to say to relieve the mental and physical strain, I 
called out graciously : 

*'How do you do, sir? Would you like to get 
by?" 



On an 'Alaskan Trail 95 

**I'd like it — well, lady/' he replied, with what 
I felt to be his very politest manner. 

*' Perhaps," I suggested sweetly, "if I came out 
and let the horse get a good look at me — " 

"Don't you do it lady. That 'u'd scare him 
plumb to death ! ' ' 

I have always been convinced that he did not 
mean it exactly as it sounded, but I caught the 
flicker of a smile on my escort's face. It was gone 
in an instant. 

Suddenly the other horses came crowding upon 
the bell-horse. There was nothing for him to do 
but to go past me or to go over the precipice. He 
chose me as the least of the two evils. 

"Nice pony, nice boy," I wheedled as he went 
sliding and snorting past. 

Then we waited for the next horse to come by; 
but he did not come. Turning my head, I found 
him fixed in the same place and the same attitude 
as the first had been ; his eyes were as big and they 
Avere set as steadily on me. 

Well — there were fifty horses in that government 
pack train. Every one of the fifty balked at sight 
of a woman. There were horses of every color — 
gray, white, black, bay, chestnut, sorrel, and pinto. 
The sorrel were the stubbornest of all. To this day 
I detest the sight of a sorrel horse. 

We stood there in that position for a time that 
seemed like hours; we coaxed each horse as he 
balked ; and at the last were reduced to such mis- 
ery that we gave thanks to God that there were 
only fifty of them and that they couldn't kick side- 
wise as they passed. 

I forgot about the men. There were seven men, 



96 Pathway to Western Literature 

and as each man turned the bend in the trail he 
stood as still as the stillest horse, and for quite as 
long a time ; and naturally I hesitated to say, ' ' Nice 
boy, nice fellow, ' ' to help him by. 

There were more glacier streams to cross. These 
were floored with huge boulders instead of sand 
and quicksand. The horses stumbled and plunged 
powerfully. One misstep here would have meant 
death; the rapids immediately below^ the crossing 
would have beaten us to pieces upon the rocks. 

Then came more perpendicular climbing ; but at 
last, at five o'clock, with our bodies aching with 
fatigue and our senses finally dulled, through sheer 
surfeit, to the beauty of the journey, we reached 
''Wortman's" road house. 

This is twenty miles from Valdez ; and when we 
were lifted from our horses we could not stand 
alone, to say nothing of attempting to walk. 

But ''Wortman's" is the paradise of road 
houses. In it, and floating over it, is an atmosphere 
of warmth, comfort and good cheer that is a rest 
for body and heart. The beds are comfortable and 
the meals excellent. 

But it was the welcome that cheered — the spirit 
of genuine kind-heartedness. 

The road house stands in a large clearing, with 
barns and other buildings surrounding it. I never 
saw so many dogs as greeted us, except in Valdez 
or on the Yukon. They crowded about us, barking 
and shrieking a welcome. They were all big mala- 
mutes. 

After a good dinner we went to bed at eight 
o'clock. The sun was shining brightly, but we 
darkened our rooms as much as possible, and in- 



The Way of the Desert 97 

stantly fell into the sleep of utter exhaustion. — 
From '' Alaska." 



THE WAY OF THE DESEET 

By Idah Meacham Strobridge 

UNDER the palms and pepper trees that grow 
by Pacific waters I sit, and say, ''This is 
home ; ' ' and I keep saying it over and over again, 
as a child repeats a lesson that is hard to learn. 
But repeating the words of a lesson a hundred 
times and more is not learning it. Therefore, I do 
not know my lesson yet. I have driven my tent 
pegs here among California roses, and under a Cal- 
ifornia sky. I have stretched the ropes tight and 
have anchored them down — to stay. Yet this is 
not home. If you would ask me "Why?" remem- 
ber that the tent-canvas was weathered in a Desert 
wind, and the ropes bleached by a Desert sun. 
Then the tent stood there for long, in that land, 
very long. And tent pegs pull hard when driven 
long in one place. So — though, there are lilies 
and roses about me and the wind brings the salt 
smell of the sea, yet would I have the Desert alkali 
in my nostrils, and smell the smoke from a grease- 
wood camp-fire. 

Into a gray Desert (a land of gray sage and gray 
sand; of lizards, and little horned toads that are 
gray; where the coyote drifts by you like a frag- 
ment from gray fog-banks blown by the wind), 
half a century ago, they came — the prospectors — 
seeking the Desert's treasure-trove, where the Des- 



98 Pathway to Western Literature 

ert had none hidden away. Some are yet seeking 
— following the mirage still. 

Once — long ago — my horse and I went away into 
the mirage — land of these old miners; and there I 
heard them voice the stories of their hopes — the 
dreams that they believe will, some day, surely 
come true. By camp-fire smoke, or in the dim light 
of sod cabins, I have sat in that silence the Desert 
teaches you, and have listened as they talked, and 
believed as I listened. Yes, even believed; as you, 
too, will believe if you hear from their own lips the 
fables that seem so true during the hour you are 
under the story-teller's charm, with no sound 
breaking in save the crooning of the Desert wind, 
or the cry of a lone coyote. 

It may be that the twilight hour that lies at the 
end of some day that is now far in the future will 
find you there at the grease-wood camp-fire of one 
of these old men. Then you will knoAV these things 
as I have known them. 

Go up into the mountains and you will find the 
old prospectors who came into the country in the 
days of their youth, and stay on now through the 
unrewarding, quiet years. To the last chapter of 
your own life the memories of them and their 
stories will be with you, to link you yet closer to 
the old days when you found the trail that led you 
to the heart of the Desert. 

Then live in the big, still plains that tend to a 
big and a serene life, learning the best the Desert 
may teach you. These things you learn : 

That we are what we think and feel, not what 
others think and feel us to be; that mankind is a 
brotherhood, each needing the other, and not one 



The yi^aij of the Desert 99 

can be spared from the unit ; brothers are we, born 
of a common parentage; and there is small differ- 
ence between man and man, except in so far as 
they are good or bad. 

Therefore I repeat to you that you, too, may 
some day learn the Desert's lure — the Desert's 
charm. Some time your destiny may lead you 
there; and lying awake in your blankets at night 
under the purple-black sky that is crowded with 
palpitating stars, with the warm Desert wind 
blowing softly over you, caressing your face and 
smoothing your hair as no human hands ever could, 
and bringing with it the hushed night-sounds that 
only the land of the grease-wood and the sage 
knows! then — all alone there with only God and 
the Desert — you will come to understand the old 
prospector and his ways; the Red Man who was 
there bof ore him ; and all w^ho, by reason of years 
of dwelling there, have made it their own. But 
not now ; not till you and the Desert are lovers. 

So I say to you : " Go ! go to the gray land and 
search till you find its heart ! " If you go, and live 
there long enough, you Avill learn to love it. And 
if you love it and go away, you will never for one 
instant forget it in after years. It will be with 
you in memory ever afterward — a something so 
cherished that it has no counterpart elsewhere in 
all the world. And always — though you go to the 
end of the earth — you Avill hear the still voice call- 
ing and calling! — From '*In Miner's Mirage 
Land.'' 



100 Pathiuay to Western Literature 

HEIMWEH 

By Lowell Otus Reese 

NOW the mountain breeze is blowing 'round a 
little cabin hiding 
Down among the cedar windfalls of the far Sier- 
ra hills; 
And the music of the torrent on the wind of morn- 
ing riding, 
Through the balsam-laden air in sweet harmonic 
measure thrills ; 
Oh, the mellow, mellow murmur ! I can hear the 
Naiads singing 
'Mid the bending boughs of alder where the hid- 
den waters flow; 
And the echo of their music in an ecstacy is ringing 
Night and morning 'round the windows of a cab- 
in that I know. 

Siveet, sweet, waiting to greet, 
Over and over the tongues repeat, 

Deep in the woodland gloam, 
''Cool, cool is the hidden pool — 

When are you coming home?-^ 

Tell me what it is that deep within the bosom low is 
crying. 
When across the distant mountain comes the 
whisper of the pine ; 
When you wake at night and listen to the mystic 
voices sighing 
From the far-off slopes all heavy with the scent 
of columbine; 



Heimweh 101 

Tell me from what ancient era comes the restless 
spirit stirring 
In my breast when summer beckons and the 
haunted breezes blow, 
Till I hear the stealthy footsteps and the wild wings 
nervous whirring 
In the leafy forest temples 'round a cabin that I 
know. 

Oh, the magic of the mountains when the voice of 
Nature calling, 
With a flood of homesick longing all the yearn- 
ing spirit fills ! 
When you spend the long night's dreaming of the 
early glory falling 
In a flood of gold and purple on the greenness 
of the hills : 
Who shall turn my heart against her ? Who shall 
keep my feet from straying 
To the far-off rocky valley where the hidden 
waters flow — 
Where all summer long I listen the enchanted 
breezes playing 
In the pine and cedar waving 'round a cabin that 
I know ! 

Hark, hark! Out in the dark, 
Whippoorwill's cry and the fox's hark, 

Under a starry dome; 
Near, clear, comes to my ear — 

^'When are you coming homef 



102 Patliiuay to Westeni Literature 

SAN FRANCISCO'S OLD CHINATOWN 

By Frank Norris 

THEY looked swiftly around them, and the 
bustling, breezy water-front faded from their 
recollections. They were in a world of narrow 
streets, of galleries and overhanging balconies. 
Craziest structures, riddled and honey-combed with 
stairways and passages, shut out the sky, though 
here and there rose a building of extraordinary 
richness and most elaborate ornamentation. Color 
was everywhere. A thousand little notes of green 
and yellow, of vermilion and sky blue, assaulted the 
eye. Here it was a doorway, here a vivid glint of 
cloth or hanging, here a huge scarlet sign lettered 
with gold, and here a kaleidoscopic effect in the 
garments of a passer-by. Directly opposite and 
two stories above their heads, a sort of huge "log- 
gia," one blaze of gilding and crude vermilion, 
opened in the gray cement of a crumbling facade, 
like a sudden burst of flame. Gigantic pot-bellied 
lanterns of red and gold swung from its ceiling, 
while along the railing stood a row of pots — brass, 
ruddy bronze and blue porcelain — from which 
were growing red, saffron, purple, pink and golden 
tulips without number. The air v/as vibrant with 
unfamiliar noises. From one of the balconies near 
at hand, though unseen, a gong, a pipe and some 
kind of stringed instrument wailed and thundered 
in unison. There was a vast shuffling of padded 
soles and a continuous interchange of singsong 
monosyllables, high-pitched and staccato, while 
from every hand rose the strange aromas of the 



San Francisco's Old Chinatoivn 103 

East — sandalwood, punk, incense, oil, and the smell 
of mysterious cooking. 

''Chinatown!" exclaimed Travis. *'I hadn't 
the faintest idea we had come up so far. Coudy 
Rivers, do you know what time it is ? " She pointed 
a white kid finger through the doorway of a drug 
store, where, amid lacquer boxes and bronze urns 
of herbs and dried seeds, a round Seth Thomas 
marked half-past four. 

* ' And your lunch ? ' ' cried Coudy. ' ' Great heav- 
ens! I never thought." 

"It's too late to get any at home. Never mind; 
I'll go somewhere and have a cup of tea." 

*'Why not get a package of Chinese tea, now 
that you're down here, and take it home with 
you?" 

"Or drink it here." 

"Where?" 

"In one of the restaurants. There wouldn't be 
a soul there at this hour. I know they serve tea 
any time. Coudy, let's try it. Wouldn't it be 
fun?" 

Coudy smote his thigh. "Pun!" he vociferated. 
It is — it would be heavenly! Wait a moment. I'll 
tell you what we will do. Tea won't be enough. 
We '11 go down to Kearney street, or to the market, 
and get some crackers to go with it." 

They hurried back to the California market, a 
few blocks distant, and bought some crackers and 
a wedge of new cheese. 

"First catch your restaurant," said Travis, as 
they turned into Dupont street with its thronging 
coolies and swarming gayly clad children. But 
they had not far to seek. 



104 Pathivay to Western Literature 

' ' Here you are ! ' ' suddenly exclaimed Coudy, 
halting in front of a wholesale tea-house bearing 
a sign in Chinese and English. "Come on, 
Travis!'' 

They ascended two flights of a broad, brass- 
bound staircase leading up from the ground floor 
and gained the restaurant on the top story of the 
building. As Travis had foretold, it was deserted. 

The restaurant ran the whole depth of the build- 
ing, and was finished off at either extremity with 
a gilded balcony, one overlooking Dupont street 
and the other the old Plaza. Enormous screens of 
gilded ebony, intricately carved and set Avith col- 
ored glass panes, divided the room into three, and 
one of these divisions, in the rear part, from which 
they could step out upon the balcony that com- 
manded the view of the Plaza, they elected as their 
own. 

It was charming. At their backs they had the 
huge, fantastic screen, brave and fine with its coat 
of gold. In front, through the glass-paned valves of 
a pair of folding doors, they could see the roofs of 
the houses beyond the Plaza, and beyond these the 
blue of the bay with its anchored ships, and even 
beyond this the faint purple of the Oakland shore. 
On either side of these doors, in deep alcoves, were 
divans with mattings and headrests for opium 
smokers. The walls were painted blue and hung 
with vertical Cantonese legends in red and silver, 
while all around the sides of the room small ebony 
tables alternated with ebony stools, each inlaid 
with a slab of mottled marble. A chandelier, all 
a-glitter with tinsel, swung from the center of the 
ceiling over a huge round table of mahogany. 



San Francisco^s Old Chinatown 105 

Below them, out there around the old Plaza, the 
city drummed through its work, with a lazy, sooth- 
ing rumble. Nearer at hand, Chinatown sent up 
the vague murmur of the life of the Orient. In 
the direction of the Mexican quarter, the Hell of 
the cathedral knolled at intervals. The sky was 
without a cloud and the afternoon was warm. 

Coudy brought Travis out upon the balcony to 
show her the points of interest in and around the 
Plaza. 

''There's the Stevenson memorial ship in the 
center, see; and right there where the flagstaff is, 
General Baker made the funeral oration over the 
body of Terry. Right opposite where that pawn- 
shop is, is w^here the overland stages used to start 
in '49. And every other building that fronts on 
the Plaza, even this one we're in now, used to be 
a gambling house in bonanza times; and see, over 
yonder is the Morgue and the City Prison. ' ' 

Beyond these the city tumbled raggedly down to 
meet the bay in a confused, vague mass of roofs, 
cornices, cupolas and chimneys, blurred and indis- 
tinct. Then came the bay. Beyond was the Contra 
Costa shore, a vast streak of purple against the 
sky. The eye followed its skyline westward till it 
climbed, climbed, climbed up a long slope that sud- 
denly leaped heavenward with the crest of Tamal- 
pais, purple and still, looking always to the sun- 
set like a great watching Sphinx. Then, farther 
on, the slope seemed to break like the breaking of 
an advancing billow, and go tumbling, crumbling 
downward to meet the Golden Gate — the narrow 
inlet of green tide-water with its flanking Presidio. 
But farther than this the eye was stayed, farther 



106 Pathivay to Western Literature 

than this there was nothing, nothing but a vast il- 
limitable plain of green — the open Pacific. But at 
this hour the color cf the scene was its greatest 
charm. It glowed with all the somber radiance of 
a cathedral. As the afternoon waned, the west 
burned down to a dull red glow that overlaid the 
blue of the bay with a sheen of ruddy gold. The 
foothills of the opposite shore, Diablo, and at last 
even Tamalpais, resolved themselves to the velvet 
gray of the sky. The sky and land and the city's 
huddled roofs were one. Only the sheen of dull 
gold remained, piercing the single vast mass of pur- 
ple like the blade of a golden sword. 

''There's a ship!" said Travis, in a low tone. 

A four-master was dropping quietly through the 
Golden Gate, swimming on that sheen of gold, a 
mere shadow. In a few moments her bows were 
shut from sight by the old fort at the Gate. Then 
her stern vanished, then the main-mast. She wa.s 
gone. By midnight she would be out of sight of 
land, rolling on the swell of the lonely ocean un- 
der the moon's white eye. 

They turned back into the room, and a great, fat 
Chinaman brought them tea on Coudy's order. 
But, besides tea, he brought dried almonds, pickled 
watermelon rinds, candied quince and ''China 
nuts." 

Travis cut the cheese into cubes with Coudy's 
penknife, and arranged the cubes in geometric fig- 
ures upon the crackers. "I wonder if this green, 
pasty stuff is good," she asked. 

They found that it was, but so sweet that it 
made their tea taste bitter. The watermelon rinds 
were flat to their Western palates, but the dried 



Adventures of the 'Forty-Niners 107 

almonds were a great success. Then Coudy prompt- 
ly got the hiccoughs from drinking his tea too fast, 
and fretted up and down the room like a chicken 
with the pip till Travis grew weak and faint with 
laughter. 

''Oh, well/' he exclaimed, aggrievedly — ''laugh, 
that's right! I don't laugh. It isn't such fun 
when you've got 'em yourself — 'hulp.' " 

"Come along, and don't be so absurd. It is get- 
ting late. I wonder," said Travis, as they skirted 
the Plaza going down to Kearney street, "I won- 
der if we are talked out. I never remember to 
have had a better time than I've had to-day," she 
said as Coudy put her on the cable car. "Good- 
bye, Coudy; haven't we had the jolliest day that 
ever was ? ' ' 

"Couldn't have been better," he answered. 
"Good-bye, Travis ! "—From "Blix.". 



ADVENTURES OF THE TOETY-NINERS 

By William Lewis Manly 

WE found the little mule stopped by a still high- 
er precipice or perpendicular rise of fully ten 
feet. Our hearts sank within us and we said that 
we should return to our friends as we went away, 
Avith our knapsacks on our backs, and the hope grew 
very small. The little mule was nipping some straw 
blades of grass and as we came in sight she looked 
around to us and then up the steep rocks before her 
with such a knowing, intelligent look of confidence 
that it gave us new courage. It was a strange, wild 



108 Pathivay to Western Literature 

place. The north wall of the canon leaned far over 
the channel, overhanging considerably, while the 
south wall sloped back about the same, making the 
walls nearly parallel, and like a huge crevice de- 
scending into the mountain from above in a sloping 
direction. 

We decided to try to get the confident little mule 
over this obstruction. Gathering all the loose rocks 
we could, we piled them up against the south wall, 
beginning some distance below, putting up all those 
in the bed of the stream and throwing down others 
from narrow shelves above, we built a sort of in- 
clined plane along the walls, gradually rising till 
w^e were nearly as high as the crest of the fall. Here 
was a narrow shelf scarcely four inches wide, and 
a space of from twelve to fifteen feet to cross to 
reach the level of the crest. It was all I could do to 
cross this space, and there was no foundation to 
enable us to widen it so as to make a path for an 
animal. It was a forlorn hope, but we made the most 
of it. We unpacked the mule, and getting all our 
ropes together, made a leading line of it. Then we 
loosened and threw down all the proj crating points 
of rocks we could above the narrow shelf, and every 
piece that was likely to come loose in the shelf itself. 
We fastened the leading line to her and with one 
above and one below, we thought we could help her 
to keep her balance, and if she did not make a mis- 
step on that narrow way, she might get over safelj^ 
Without a moment's hesitation, the brave animal 
tried the pass. Carefully and steadily she went 
along, selecting a place before putting down a foot, 
and when she came to the narrow ledge leaned 
gently on the rope, never making a sudden start or 



Adventures of the ^Forty-Niners 109 

jump, but cautiously as a cat, moved slowly along. 
There was now no turning back for her. She must 
cross this narrow place over which I had to creep 
on hand and knees, or be dashed down fifty feet to 
certain death. When the worst place was reached 
she stopped and hesitated, looking back as well as 
she could. I was ahead with the rope, and called 
encouragingly to her and talked to her a little. 
Rogers wanted to get all ready, and *' holler'' at 
her as loud as he could and frighten her across, but 
I thought the best way was to talk to her gently and 
let her move steadily. 

I tell you, friends, it was a trying moment. It 
seemed to be weighed down with all the trials and 
hardships of many months. It seemed to be the 
time when helpless women and innocent children 
hung on the trembling balance between life and 
death. Our own lives we could have saved by going 
back, and sometimes it seemed as if we would per- 
haps save ourselves the additional sorrow of finding 
them all dead to do so at once. I was so nearly in 
despair that I could not help bursting into tears, 
and I was ashamed of the weakness. Finally Rog- 
ers said, **Come, Lewis," and I gently pulled the 
rope, calling the little animal to make a trial. She 
smelled all around and looked over every inch of 
the strong ledge, then took one careful step after 
another over the dangerous place. Looking back I 
saw Rogers with a very large stone in his hand, 
ready to ''holler" and perhaps kill the poor beast 
if she stopped. But she crept along, trusting to the 
rope to balance, till she was half-way across, then 
another step or two, when, calculating the distance 
closely, she made a spring and landed on a smooth 



110 Fathway to Western Literatxire 

bit of sloping rock below, that led up to the highest 
crest of the precipice, and safely climbed to the top, 
safe and sound above the falls. The mule had no 
shoes, and it was wonderful how her little hoofs 
clung to the smooth rock. AA^e felt relieved. We 
would push on and carry food to the people; we 
would get them through some way ; there could be 
no more hopeless moment than the one just passed, 
and we would save them all. 



Out of Death Valley we surely were. To Rogers 
and I the case seemed hopeful, for we had confi- 
dence in the road and believed all would have power 
to weather difficulties, but the poor women — it is 
hard to say what complaints and sorrows were not 
theirs. They seemed to think they stood at death's 
door, and would as soon enter as to take up a 
farther march over the black, desolate mountains 
and dry plains before them, which they considered 
only a dreary vestibule to the dark door after all. 
They even had an idea that the road was longer 
than we told them, and they never could live to 
march so far over the sandy, rocky roads. The first 
day nearly satisfied them that it was no use to try. 
Rogers and I counted up the camps we ought to 
reach each day, and in this way we could pretty 
nearly convince them of the time that would be con- 
sumed in the trip. AA^e encouraged them in every 
way we could ; told them we had better get along a 
little every day and make ourselves a little nearer 
the promised land, and the very exercise would soon 
make them stronger and able to make a full day's 
march. 



^Adventures of the ^Forty-Niners 111 

The route was first along the foot of the high 
peak, over bare rocks, and we soon turned south 
somewhat so as to enter the canon leading down to 
the falls. The bottom of this was thick with broken 
rock, and the oxen limped and picked out soft 
places about as bad as the women did. A pair of 
moccasins would not last long in such rocks and we 
hoped to get out of them very soon. Rogers and I 
hurried along, assisting Arcane and his party as 
much as we could, while Bennett stayed behind and 
assisted the women as much as possible, taking their 
arms, and by this means they also reached camp an 
hour behind the rest. 

A kettle of hot, steaming soup, and blankets all 
spread out on which to rest, was the work Rogers 
and I had done to prepare for them, and they sank 
down on the beds completely exhausted. The chil- 
dren cried some, but were soon pacified, and were 
contented to lie still. A good supper of hot soup 
made them feel much better all around. 

The first thing Bennett and Arcane did was to 
look aiound to see the situation at the falls, and see 
if the obstacle was enough to stop our progress, or 
if we must turn back and look for a better way. 
They were in some doubt about it, but concluded to 
try and get the animals over rather than to take the 
time to seek another pass, which might take a week 
of time. We men all went down to the foot of the 
precipice, and threw out all the large rocks, then 
piled up all the sand we could scrape together with 
the shovel, till we had quite a pile of material that 
would tend to break a fall. We arranged every- 
thing possible for a forced passage in the morning, 
and the animals found a few willows to browse and 



112 Pathway to Western Literature 

a few bunches of grass here and there, which gave 
them a little food, while the spring supplied them 
with enough water to keep them from suffering 
from thirst. 

Early in the morning, we took our soup hastily 
and with ropes lowered our luggage over the small 
precipice, then the children, and finally all the 
ropes were combined to make a single strong one 
about thirty feet long. They urged one of the oxen 
up to the edge of the falls, put the rope around his 
horns, and threw down the end to me, Avhom they 
had stationed below. I was told to pull hard when 
he started so that he might not light on his head 
and break his neck. We felt this was a desperate 
undertaking, and we fully expected to lose some of 
our animals, but our case was critical and we must 
take some chances. Bennett stood on one side of 
the ox and Arcane on the other, while big Eogers 
was placed in the rear to give a Tennessee boost 
when the word was given. ' 'Now for it, ' ' said Ben- 
nett, and as I braced out on the rope those above 
gave a push and the ox came over sprawling, but 
landed safely, cut only a little by some angular 
stones in the sand pile. ''Good enough," said 
some one, and I threw the rope back for another 
ox. ''We'll get 'em all over safely," said Arcane, 
"if Lewis, down there, will keep them from getting 
their necks broken. ' ' Lewis pulled hard every time, 
and not a neck was broken. The sand pile was re- 
newed every time, and made as high and soft as 
possible, and very soon all our animals were below 
the falls. The little mule gave a jump when they 
pushed her and landed squarely on her feet all 
right. With the exception of one or two slight cuts. 



Bow Santa Clans Came to Simpson's Bar 113 

which bled some, the oxen were all right and we be- 
gan loading them at once. 

Bennett and Arcane assisted their wives down 
along the little narrow ledge which we used in get- 
ting up, keeping their faces toward the rocky wall, 
and feeling carefully for every footstep. Thus they 
worked along and landed safely by the time we had 
the animals ready for a march. We had passed 
without disaster the obstacle we most feared, and 
started down the rough canon, hope revived, and we 
felt we should get through. — From *' Death Valley 
in '49." 



HOW SANTA GLAUS CAME TO 
SIMPSON'S BAR 

By Beet Harte 

IT was one o'clock, and yet he had only gained 
Rattlesnake Creek. For in that time Jovita 
had rehearsed to him all her imperfections and 
practiced all her vices. Thrice had she stumbled; 
twice had she thrown her Roman nose up in a 
straight line with the reins, and, resisting bit and 
spurs, struck out madly across the country. Twice 
had she reared, and, rearing, fallen backward ; and 
twice had the agile Dick, unharmed, regained his 
seat before she found her vicious legs again. And 
a mile beyond them, at the foot of a long hill, was 
Rattlesnake Creek. Dick, knowing that here was the 
crucial test of his ability to perform his enterprise, 
set his teeth grimly, put his knees well into her 
flanks, and changed his defensive tactics to brisk 
aggression. Bullied and maddened, Jovita began 



114 Pathway to Western Literature 

the ascent of the hill. Here the artful Richard pre- 
tended to hold her in with ostentatious objurgation 
and well-feigned cries of alarm. It is unnecessary 
to add that Jovita instantly ran away. Nor need 
I state the time made in the descent; it is written 
in the chronicles of Simpson's Bar. Enough that 
in another moment, as it seemed to Dick, she was 
splashing on the overfloAved banks of Rattlesnake 
Creek. As Dick expected, the momentum she had 
acquired carried her beyond the point of balking, 
and, holding her well together for a mighty leap, 
they dashed into the middle of the swiftly flowing 
current. A few moments of kicking, wading and 
swimming, and Dick drew a long breath on the op- 
posite bank. 

The road from Rattlesnake Creek to Red Moun- 
tain was tolerably level. Either the plunge in Rat- 
tlesnake Creek had dampened her baleful fire, or 
the art which led to it had shown her the superior 
wickedness of her rider, for Jovita no longer wasted 
her surplus energy in wanton conceits. Once she 
bucked, but it was from force of habit; once she 
shied, but it was from a new, freshly painted meet- 
ing-house at the crossing of the county road. Hol- 
lows, ditches, gravelly deposits, patches of freshly 
springing grasses, flew from beneath her rattling 
hoofs. She began to smell unpleasantly, once or 
twice she coughed slightly, but there was no abate- 
ment of her strength or speed. By two o'clock he 
had passed Red Mountain and began the descent 
to the plains. Ten minutes later the driver of the 
fast Pioneer coach was overtaken and passed by a 
"man on a Pinto hoss" — an event sufficiently nota- 
ble for remark. At half-past two Dick rose in his 



How Santa Clans Came to Simpson's Bar 115 

stirrups Avith a great shout. Stars were glittering 
through the rifted clouds and, beyond him, out of 
the plain rose two spires, a flagstaff, and a strag- 
gling line of black objects. Dick jingled his spurs 
and swung his riata, Jovita bounded forward, and 
in another moment they swept into Tuttleville, and 
drew up before the wooden piazza of ' ' The Hotel of 
All Nations." 

What transpired that night at Tuttleville is not 
strictly a part of this record. Briefly, I may state, 
however, that after Jovita had been handed over to 
a sleepy hostler, whom she at once kicked into un- 
pleasant unconsciousness, Dick sallied forth with 
the barkeeper for a tour of the sleeping town. It 
was three o'clock before this pleasantry was over, 
and with a small water-proof bag of India rubber 
strapped on his shoulders Dick returned to the 
hotel. And then he sprang to the saddle and 
dashed down the lonely street and out into the lone- 
lier plain, where presently the lights, the black line 
of houses, the spires and the flagstaff sank into 
the earth behind him again and were lost in the dis- 
tance. 

The storm had cleared away, the air was brisk 
and cold, the outlines of adjacent landmarks were 
distinct, but it was half-past four Before Dick 
reached the meeting-house and the crossing of the 
road. To avoid the rising grade, he had taken a 
longer and more circuitous road, in whose viscid 
mud Jovita sank fetlock deep at every bound. It 
was a poor preparation for a steady ascent of five 
miles more; but Jovita, gathering her legs under 
her, took it with her usual blind, unreasoning fury, 
and a half hour later reached the long level that led 



116 PatJiivay to Western Literature 

to Rattlesnake Creek. Another half hour would 
bring him to the creek. He threw the reins lightly 
over the neck of the mare, chirruped to her and be- 
gan to sing. 

Suddenly Jovita shied with a bound that would 
have unseated a less practiced rider. Hanging to 
her rein was a figure that had leaped from the 
bank, and at the same time from the road before 
her arose a shadowy horse and rider. 

** Throw up your hands!" commanded the sec- 
ond apparition, with an oath. 

Dick felt the mare tremble, quiver, and appar- 
ently sink under him. He knew what it meant and 
was prepared. 

''Stand aside, Jack Simpson. I know you, you 
thief! Let me pass on " 

He did not finish the sentence. Jovita rose 
straight in the air with a terrific bound, throwing 
the figure from her bit with a single shake of her 
vicious head, and charged with deadly malevolence 
down on the impediment before her. An oath, a 
pistol shot, and horse and highwayman rolled over 
in the road, and the next moment Jovita was a 
hundred yards away. But the good right arm of 
her rider, shattered by a bullet, dropped helplessly 
at his side. 

Without slacking his speed he shifted the reins 
to his left hand. But a few moments later he was 
obliged to halt and tighten the saddle-girths that 
had slipped in the onset. This, in his crippled con- 
dition, took some time. He had no fear of pursuit, 
but looking up he saw that the eastern stars were 
already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost 
their ghostly whiteness, and now stood out blackly 



How Santa Clans Came to Simpson's Bar 117 

against a lighter sky. Day was upon him. Then 
completely absorbed in a single idea, he forgot the 
pain of his wound, and, mounting again, dashed on 
toward Rattlesnake Creek. But now Jovita's- 
breath came by broken gasps, Dick reeled in the 
saddle, and brighter and brighter grew the sky. 

Ride, Richard ; run Jovita ; linger, day ! 

For the last few rods there was a roaring in his 
ears. AVas it exhaustion from loss of blood, or 
what? He Avas dazed and giddy as he swept down 
the hill and did not recognize his surroundings. 
Had he taken the wrong road, or was this Rattle- 
snake Creek? 

It was. But the brawling creek he had swam a 
few hours before had risen, more than doubled its 
volume, and now rolled a swift and restless river 
between him and Rattlesnake Hill. For the first 
time that night Richard's heart sank within him. 
The river, the mountain, the quickening east, swam 
before his eyes. He shut them to recover his self- 
control. In that brief interval, by some fantastic 
mental process, the little room at Simpson's Bar 
and the figures of the sleeping father and son rose 
upon him. He opened his eyes wildly, cast off his 
coat, pistol, boots and saddle, bound his precious 
pack tightly to his shoulders, grasped the bare 
flanks of Jovita with his bared knees, and with a 
shout dashed into the yellow water. A cry rose 
from the opposite bank as the head of a man and 
horse struggled for a few moments against the bat- 
tling current, and then were swept away amid up- 
rooted trees and whirling driftwood. 



118 Pathway to Western Literature 

The Old Man started and awoke. The fire on the 
hearth was dead, the candle in the outer room flick- 
ering in its socket, and somebody was rapping on 
the door. He opened it, but fell back with a cry 
before the dripping, half-naked figure that reeled 
before the doorpost. 

''Dick?" 

''Hush. Is he awake yet?" 

''No! but, Dick." 

"Dry up, you old fool. Get me some whisky, 
quick. ' ' 

The Old Man flew and returned with an empty 
bottle. 

Dick would have sworn that his strength was not 
equal to the occasion. He staggered, caught at the 
handle of the door, and motioned to the Old Man. 

"Thar's suthin' in my pack fer Johnny. Take 
it off. I can't." 

The Old Man unstrapped the pack, and laid it 
before the exhausted man. 

' ' Open it, quick. ' ' 

He did so with trembling fingers. It contained 
only a few poor toys — cheap and barbaric enough, 
goodness knows, but bright with paint and tinsel. 
One of them was broken ; another, I fear, was irre- 
trievably ruined by water, and on the third — ah 
me, there was a cruel spot. 

"It don't look like much, that's a fact," said 
Dick ruefully. "But it's the best we could do. 
Take 'em, Old Man, and put 'em in his stocking, 
and tell him — tell him, you know — hold me. Old 
Man. ' ' The Old Man caught at the sinking figure. 
"Tell him," said Dick, with a weak little laugh — 
*'tell him Sandy Glaus has come." 



The Pearls of Loreta 119 

And even so, bedraggled, ragged, unshaved and 
unshorn, with one arm hanging helplessly at his 
side, Santa Claus came to Simpson's Bar and fell 
fainting on the first threshold. The Christmas 
dawn came slowl}^ after, touching the remoter 
peaks with the rosy warmth of ineffable love. And 
it looked so tenderly on Simpson's Bar that the 
whole mountain, as if caught in a generous action, 
blushed to the skies.— From ''Tales of the Argo- 
nauts. ' ' 

[Copyright, 1872, by James R. Osgood & Co. Copyright, 
1896, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Copyright, 1900, by 
Bret Harte. By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & 
Co., publishers of Bret Harte's work.] 



THE PEAKLS OF LORETA 

By Gertrude Atherton 

THE fog lay thick on the bay at dawn next 
morning. The white waves hid the blue, muf- 
fled the roar of the surf. Now and again a whale 
threw a volume of spray high in the air, a geyser 
from a phantom sea. Above the white sands strag- 
gled the white town, ghostly, prophetic. 

De la Vega, a dark sombrero pulled over his 
eyes, a dark serape enveloping his tall figure, rode, 
unattended and watchful, out of the town. Not 
until he reached the narrow road through the brush 
forest beyond did he give his horse rein. The indo- 
lence of the Californian was no longer in his car- 



[ Copyright by The Macmillan Company, 1902.] 



120 Pathivay to Western Literature 

riage; it looked alert and muscular; recklessness 
accentuated the sternness of his face. 

As he rode, the fog receded slowly. He left the 
chaparral and rode by green marshes cut with 
sloughs and stained with vivid patches of 
orange. The frogs in the tules chanted their hoarse 
matins. Through brush-covered plains once more, 
with sparsely wooded hills in the distance, and 
again the tules, the marsh, the patches of orange. 
He rode through a field of mustard; the pale yel- 
low petals brushed his dark face, the delicate green 
leaves won his eyes from the hot glare of the as- 
cending sun, the slender stalks, rebounding, smote 
his horse's flanks. He climbed hills to avoid the 
wide marshes, and descended into willow groves 
and fields of daisies. Before noon he was in the 
San Juan IMountains, thick with sturdy oaks, bend- 
ing their heads before the madrono, that belle of 
the forest, with her robes of scarlet and her crown 
of bronze. The yellow lilies clung to her skirts, 
and the buckeye flung his flowers at her feet. The 
last redwoods were there, piercing the blue air with 
their thin, inflexible arms, gray as a dusty Hand of 
friars. Out by the willows, whereunder crept the 
sluggish river, then between the hills curving about 
the valley of San Juan Bautista. 

At no time is California so beautiful as in the 
month of June. De la Vega 's wild spirit and sav- 
age purpose were dormant for the moment as he 
rode down the valley toward the mission. The hills 
were like gold, like mammoth fawns veiled with 
violet mist, like rich, tan velvet. Afar, bare blue 
steeps were pink in their chasms, brown on their 
spurs. The dark yellow fields were as if thick with 



The Pearls of Loreta 121 

gold-dust; the pale mustard was a waving yellow 
sea. Not a tree marred the smooth hills. The 
earth sent forth a perfume of its own. Below the 
plateau from which rose the white walls of the mis- 
sion was a wide field of bright green corn rising 
against the blue sky. 

The padres in their brown hooded robes came out 
upon the long corridor of the mission and welcomed 
the traveler. Their lands had gone from them, 
their mission was crumbling, but the spirit of hos- 
pitality lingered there still. They laid meat and 
fruit and drink on a table beneath the arches, and 
sat about him and asked him eagerly for the news 
of the day. Was it true that the United States of 
America were at war with Mexico, or about to be ? 
True that their beloved flag might fall, and the 
stars and stripes of an insolent invader rise a^ove 
the fort of Monterey? 

De la Vega recounted the meager and conflicting 
rumors Avhich had reached California, but, not be- 
ing a prophet, could not tell them that they would 
be the first to see the red-white-and-blue fluttering 
on the mountain before them. He refused to rest 
more than an hour, but mounted the fresh horse 
the padres gave him and went his way, riding hard 
and relentlessly, like all Californians. 

He sped onward, through the long, hot day, leav- 
ing the hills for the marshes and a long stretch of 
ugly country, traversing the beautiful San Antonio 
Valley in the night, reaching the Mission of San 
Miguel at dawn, resting there for a few hours. 
That night he slept at a hospitable ranch-house in 
the park-like valley of Paso des Robles, a grim, 
silent figure amongst gay-hearted people who de- 



122 Pathway to Western Literature 

lighted to welcome him. The early morning found 
him among the chrome hills ; and at the Mission of 
San Luis Obispo the good padres gave him break- 
fast. The little valley, round as a well, its bare 
hills red and brown, gray and pink, violet and 
black from fire, sloping steeply from a dizzy 
height, impressed him with a sense of being pris- 
oned in an enchanted vale where no message of the 
outer world could come, and he hastened on his 
way. 

Absorbed as he was, he felt the beauty he fled 
past. A line of golden hills lay against sharp blue 
peaks. A towering mass of gray rocks had been 
cut and lashed by wind and water, earthquake and 
fire, into the semblance of a massive castle, still 
warlike in its ruin. He slept for a few hours that 
night in the Mission of Santa Ynes, and was high 
in the Santa Barbara Mountains at the next noon. 
For brief whiles he forgot his journey's purpose as 
his horse climbed slowly up the steep trails, knock- 
ing the loose stones down a thousand feet and more 
upon a roof of tree-tops which looked like stunted 
brush. Those gigantic masses of immense stones, 
each wearing a semblance to the face of man or 
beast ; those awful chasms and stupendous hei ghts, 
densely wooded, bare, and many-hued, rising above, 
beyond, peak upon peak, cutting through the visible 
atmosphere — was there no end? He turned in his 
saddle and looked over low peaks and cafions, riv- 
ers and abysms, black peaks smiting the fiery blue, 
far, far, to the dim azure mountains on the horizon. 

''Mother of God!" he thought; ''no wonder Cal- 
ifornia still shakes! I would I could have stood 
upon a star and beheld the awful throes of this 



The Pearls of Loreta 123 

country's birth." And then his horse reared be- 
tween the sharp spurs and galloped on. 

He avoided the Mission of Santa Barbara, rest- 
ing at a rancho outside the town. In the morning, 
supplied as usual with a fresh horse, he fled on- 
ward, with the ocean at his right, its splendid roar 
in his ears. The cliffs towered high above him ; he 
saw no man's face for hours together; but his 
thoughts companioned him, savage and sinister 
shapes w^hirling about the figure of a woman. On, 
on, sleeping at ranchos or missions, meeting hos- 
pitality everywhere, avoiding Los Angeles, keeping 
close to the ponderous ocean, he left civilization be- 
hind him at last, and with an Indian guide entered 
upon that desert of mountain-tops, Baja, Cali- 
fornia. 

Rapid traveling was not possible here. There 
were no valleys worthy the name. The sharp peaks, 
multiplying mile after mile, were like the teeth of 
gigantic rakes, black and bar^. A wilderness of 
mountain-tops, desolate as eternity, arid, parched, 
baked by the awful heat, the silence never broken 
by the cry of a bird, a hut rarely breaking the bar- 
ren monotony, only an infrequent spring to save 
from death. It was almost impossible to get food 
or fresh horses. Many a night De la Vega and his 
stoical guide slept beneath a cactus, or in the mock- 
ing bed of a creek. The mustangs he managed to 
lasso were almost unridable, and would have 
bucked to death any but a California. Sometimes 
he lived on cactus fruit and the dried meat he had 
brought with him; occasionally he shot a rabbit. 
Again he had but the flesh of the rattlesnake 



124 Pathway to Western Literature 

roasted over coals. But honey-dew Avas on the 
leaves. 

He avoided the beaten trail, and cut his way 
through naked bushes spiked with thorns, and 
through groves of cacti miles in length. When the 
thick fog rolled up from the ocean he had to sit 
inactive on the rocks, or lose his way. A furious 
storm dashed him against a bowlder, breaking his 
mustang's leg; then a torrent, rising like a tidal 
wave, thundered down the gulch, and, catching him 
on its crest, flung him upon a tree of thorns. When 
dawn came he found his guide dead. He cursed 
his luck, and went on. 

Lassoing another mustang, he pushed on, having 
a general idea of the direction he should take. It 
was a week before he reached Loreta, a week of 
loneliness, hunger, thirst and torrid monotony. A 
week, too, of thought and bitterness of spirit. In 
spite of his love, which never cooled, and his cour- 
age, which never quailed. Nature, in her guise of 
foul and crooked hag, mocked at earthly happi- 
ness, at human hope, at youth and passion. 

Tf he had not spent his life in the saddle, he 
would have been worn out when he finally reached 
Loreta, late one night. As it was, he slept in a hut 
until the following afternoon. Then he took a long 
swim in the bay, and, later, sauntered through the 
town. 

The forlorn little city was hardly more than a 
collection of Indians' huts about a church in a 
sandy waste. No longer the capital, even the bar- 
racks were toppling. When De la Vega entered the 
mission, not a white man but the padre and his as- 
sistant was in it; the building was thronged with 



The Overland Flyer 125 

Indian worshipers. The mission, although the 
first built in California, Avas in a fair state of pres- 
ervation. The Stations in their battered frames 
were mellow and distinct. The gold still gleamed 
in the vestments of the padre. 

For a few moments De la Vega dared not raise 
his eyes to the Lady of Loreta, standing aloft in 
the dull blaze of adamantine candles. When he 
did, he rose suddenly from his knees and left the 
mission. The pearls were there. 

It took him but a short time to gain the confi- 
dence of the priest and the little population. He 
offered no explanation for his coming, beyond the 
curiosity of a traveler. The padre gave him a 
room in the mission, and spent every hour he could 
spare with the brilliant stranger. At night he 
thanked God for the sudden oasis in his life's deso- 
lation. The Indians soon grew accustomed to the 
lonely figure wandering about the sand plains, or 
kneeling for hours together before the altar in the 
church. And whom their padre trusted was to 
them as sacred and impersonal as the wooden saints 
of their religion. — From ''The Splendid Idle 
Forties.'* 



THE OVERLAND FLYER 

By Charles Keeler 

TO-TOO! to-too! Ka-ding, ka-dong! 
Down the mole comes the flyer 
A-zipping along, — 
Smoke clouds panting and hissing of steam. 
Rattling of rails and a sudden scream ! 



126 Pathway to Western Literature 

The iron dragon snorts up to the station, 
The proudest beast in the wide creation; 
Fed on fire it puffs and blows, 
Cyclops-eyed like a fiend it glows. 

We kiss our hands to the friends by the Bay, 
On the dragon's tail we are Avhisked away, 
And faster we whiz by the glistening shore — 
Towns spin past as we ride with a roar. 

Now the iron throat is gasping astrain. 

As the beast up the mountain is dragging his train. 

where are you taking us, monster of steel ? 
Out in the darkness the pine-trees reel ! 

Over the desert we swing and fly, 

Towns and prairies are flashing by; 

When, lo ! to your castle you plunge in the night, — 

The great walls tower in ghostly light. 

Does a princess live in that tall black tower ? 
Are all of the people here under your power ? 

1 never was certain that dragons were true 
Till I got on your tail and rode with you ! 

— From ''Elfin Songs of Sunland." 

[All copyright privileges are retained by the author.] 



A BEEEZE FROM THE WOODS 

By W. C. Bartlett 

ONE learns to distinguish the sounds of this 
multitudinous life in the woods, after a few 
days, with great facility. The bark of the coyote 



'A Breeze from the Woods 127 

becomes as familiar as that of a house dog. But 
there is the solitary chirp of a bird at midnight, 
never heard after daylight, of which beyond this 
we know nothing. We know better from whence 
come the cries, as of a lost child at night, far up 
the mountain. The magpies and the jays hop 
round the tent for crumbs ; and a coon helped him- 
self from the sugar box one day in our absence. 
He was welcome, though a question more nice than 
wise was raised as to whether, on that occasion, his 
hands and nose were clean. There is danger of 
knowing too much. It is better not to know a mul- 
titude of small things which are like nettles to the 
soul. AVhat strangely morbid people are those who 
can suggest more unpleasant things in half an hour 
than one ought to hear in a lifetime ! Did I care, be- 
fore the question was raised, whether the coon 's nose 
was clean or otherwise? Now there is a lurking 
suspicion that it was not. If you offer your friend 
wine, is it necessary to tell him that barefooted 
peasants trampled out the grapes? Is honeycomb 
any the sweeter for a confession that a bee was also 
ground to pulp between the teeth? We covet re- 
tentive memories. But more trash is laid up than 
most people know what to do with. There is great 
peace and blessedness in the art of forgetfulness. 
The memory of one sweet, patient soul is better 
than a record of a thousand selfish lives. 

It was a fine conceit, and womanly withal, which 
wove a basket out of plantain rods and clover, and 
brought it into camp filled with wild strawberries. 
Thanks, too, that the faintest tints of carnation are 
beginning to touch cheeks that were so pallid a 
fortnight ago. Every spring bursting from the 



128 Pathway to Western Literature 

hillside is a fountain of youth, although none have 
yet smoothed out certain crow tracks. The madro- 
no, the most brilliant of the forest trees, sheds its 
outer bark every season ; when the outer rind curls 
up and falls off, the renevred tree has a shaft pol- 
ished like jasper or emerald. When humanity be- 
gins to wilt, what a pity that the cuticle does not 
peel as a sign of rejuvenation ! 

There is a sense of relief in getting lost now and 
then in the impenetrable fastnesses of the woods; 
and a shade of novelty in the thought that no foot- 
fall has been heard in some of these dells and jun- 
gles for a thousand years. It is not so easy a mat- 
ter to get lost after all. The bark of every forest 
tree will show which is the north side, and a bright 
cambric needle dropped gently upon a dipper of 
water is a compass of unerring accuracy. A scrap 
of old newspaper serves as a connecting link with 
the world beyond. The pyramids were probably 
the first newspapers — a clumsy but rather perma- 
nent edition. 

But let us hope that the musician is born who 
will yet come to the woods and take down all the 
bird songs. What a splendid baritone the horned 
owl has ! Who has written the music of the orioles 
and thrushes? Who goes to these bird operas at 
four o'clock in the morning? There is room for 
one fresh, original music book, the whole of which 
can be written at a few sittings upon a log just 
where the forests are shaded off into copses and 
islands of verdure beyond. — From ''A Breeze from 
the Woods." 



Souiliern California Before the Boom 129 

SOUTHEEN CALIFORNIA BEFORE THE 
BOOM 

By Theodore Van Dyke 

FROM 1870 to 1875 Southern California was 
passing out of the control of the large land- 
owners, nearly all of whom were raising cattle, 
horses and sheep to the exclusion of everything 
else, and into the control of the general farmer and 
fruit-grower. These were mainly small owners of 
what had been public land. Some of the great 
ranchos, or Mexican grants, which embraced the 
greater part of what was then considered good 
land, had been opened by the owners to settlement. 
But most of the large owners were unwilling to in- 
jure their stock-range by admitting scattering 
farmers ; so that the great majority of the new set- 
tlers were upon the outlying tracts of public land 
around the edges of the large ranchos, and in the 
small pockets and valleys of the surrounding hills. 
In 1875 their number was considerable; but their 
work was a combination of laziness, imitation of 
Mexican methods, and general shiftlessness, the bad 
effects of which were increased by ignorance of the 
peculiarities of California. 

Almost every attempt of this class to make a dol- 
lar from the soil Avas thwarted by these causes. 
Nevertheless there was an attraction about the soft 
climate of winter and the dry, cool sea-breeze of 
summer, in the long line of sunny days with nights 
made for soundest sleep, and in the absence of 
storms, high winds and other climatic discomforts, 
that made people stay, however unsuccessful, and 



130 Pathivay to Westcim Literature 

steadily brought more to stay with them. It was 
a grand play-country, and one could get along with 
less than in any other part of the United States and 
still be respectable and fat. But everywhere there 
was a broad smile when some enthusiastic new- 
comer said that it would some day be the richest 
part of the United States outside the great cities. 

Descending one day in the fall of 1875 from a 
hunt among the foothills of one of the great moun- 
tain ranges of Southern California, my companion 
and I came into a little valley or pocket where one 
of the long slopes of a great vallej^ broke into the 
hills. It contained some sixty acres of dark soil 
along the bed" of a little creek, with some reddish 
land sloping toward the hill on one side. The bot- 
tom-land looked as if with judicious coaxing it 
might be induced to raise a bean or possibly a cab- 
bage; but nothing could seem more hopeless than 
any attempt to raise anything on the land that 
sloped toward the hills. 

The most conspicuous thing about the place, or 
' ' ranche, ' ' as all such places were then called, was 
a group of some two hundred beehives set upon 
low stands on a bit of rising ground at the base of 
the hill. Around some of them a few bees were 
lazily crawling, but the greater number of hives 
were silent. Near by was the "honey-house," also 
deserted, except where a few bees were exploring 
the keyhole and the chinks in the sides, lured by 
the smell of honey that still lingered within. Near 
by a pile of poles half hidden in decayed straw be- 
trayed some symptoms of having once been in- 
tended for a stable. A little farther on we came to 
the "ranche house." It was of the regulation pat- 



Southern California Before the Boom 131 

tern of the granger's house of that time — a mere 
shell of rough lumber mounted upon stilts, full in 
the sun, with its only Avindow on the side from 
which in summer the breeze is certain never to 
come. Under a huge live oak behind the house 
hung a box Avith a door and back of wire screen, 
through which was dimly visible a long strip of 
desiccated bacon rind with the butt-ends of de- 
parted slices standing along its inner surface, yel- 
low and gray Avith time — a melancholy stub-book 
of past prosperity. All round the house were frag- 
ments of honey-boxes, masses of dead bees and 
moth cocoons, broken glass, empty tin cans, rab- 
bit skins and empty tobacco sacks, while the outside 
of the house was adorned with nails full hung with 
an assortment of almost everything from a plow- 
clevis to a Aveather-beaten Avild-cat skin. 

A lank dog drew himself Avith considerable ef- 
fort from under the house at our approach, gave a 
perfunctory bark, and hastily retreated to the 
shade he had unwisely left. As we rounded the 
corner of the house the sound of dragging feet 
came from within, then a stream of tobacco juice 
cleared the soapbox that served for a door-stoop, 
and in another second a bushy head, ragged Avhisk- 
ers and froAvsy mustache came sloAvly into vicAV 
round the door post. 

''Morning," drawled the owner of the head, 
propping himself Avith care against the door-post, 
and smiling as in my friend he recognized an old 
acquaintance. 

''Come in," he added, as he shuffled himself in- 
side, hooked one foot within one of the legs of a 
three-legged stool and gave it a lazy jerk into the 



132 Patlnvay to Western Literature 

naidclle of the floor, while with the other foot he 
kicked an empty nail-keg toward my companion. 

' ' Take a seat, ' ' he continued, as, with a minimum 
of exertion that he had evidently studied out with 
long practice, he half slid and half tumbled upon a 
rough cot in one corner. 

The solar heat of the autumn day upon the thin 
roof was increased by a fire in an open fireplace, 
^vhere a flapjack suitable for a cannon wad was 
sputtering in a frying-pan. 

''AVe'll have some dinner directly, said the own- 
er of the frying-pan with a dubious glance at the 
half of a rabbit that lay on the table awaiting its 
turn in the frying-pan. 

''Can't stop, thank you," said my companion, 
who had taken a hasty review of the larder. ' ' How 
are the bees doing?" 

' ' Fine ! I ain 't lost over two-thirds of mine. 
Some of my neighbors have lost about all of theirs. 
Last winter the rain was too light and the feed 
short, and they robbed the bees too close. I didn't 
have to rob mine. They were so hungry they rob- 
bed each other and saved me the trouble, ' ' said the 
granger. 

"You raise good fruit here, I suppose?" I re- 
marked, quite innocently. 

' ' The bluejays and linnets think so ; I never had 
a chance to sample any of it myself. ' ' 

"That land along the creek looks like good gar- 
den land, ' ' said my friend ; ' ' you raise good vege- 
tables there, of course." 

"I've laid down lots of them. I never raised 
any yet." 

"But you certainly raise your own potatoes?" 



Southern California Before the Boom 133 

"No; the squirrels raise them for me." 

* * And don 't you have any garden at all ? ' ' 

*'Had one, one year, but the chickens got away 
with it." 

''I don't see any chickens around here now." 

*'0f course not. The wild cats got away with 
them by the time they had finished the garden." 

"Did you ever try the raisin-grape here?" 

"Planted some once, but the rabbits eat off the 
buds as fast as they came out. ' ' 

* ' Well, you get even on the rabbits, don 't you ? ' ' 
said my friend with a wink at me that showed that 
he was drawing out the man for amusement. 

"The rabbits don't owe my anything," replied 
the man. "I would have been busted long ago 
without them. But they are getting so scarce now 
that I have to go three or four hundred yards from 
the house to get one. It's a cold day when I have 
to split a rabbit to make two meals out of. The 
outlook for grub is getting really serious, ' ' with an 
anxious look at the half of a rabbit. 

"And didn't any of the vines grow at all?" asked 
my friend. 

"Well, a few did, but the deer closed them out in 
the fall." 

"And can't you get even on the deer? That's 
the way I do." 

"Too much resemblance to work, tramping over 
these hills." 

"But wine grapes ought to do well, and deer 
don't bother them much." 

"Quails!" replied the man with a sigh. 

"I should think this would make a good hog 
ranche," continued my friend. 
10 



134 Pathway to Western Literature 

'' Splendid. I've got several dozen; they don't 
require any care here at all; I haven't had to look 
after mine for three years. But I know they are 
safe; a grizzly bear couldn't catch them in the 
chaparral, and no man would ever try it." 

"Why didn't you fence them in?" I asked. 

*'What ! and buy feed for 'em? Stranger, if it's 
a fair question, may I inquire where you were 
raised ? ' ' 

"You ought to raise corn on that land over 
there," said my friend. 

' ' See those crows sitting in the sycamores ? Tried 
it once. They are waiting for me to try it again. 
I'm waiting for them to die of disappointment." 

"Why don't you try alfalfa? Crows don't pull 
that up." 

"Had just that brilliant idea myself once. It 
only cost me a hundred dollars, though; that's the 
cheapest experience I've had here." 

"^Yhy, what was the matter?" 

"Gophers," sighed the man. 

"Have you tried grain?" 

"Did you ever strike a darned fool here yet that 
didn't? I put in forty acres once. The header- 
man, threshing-machine-man and the warehouse- 
man in town all did well on it." 

' ' And how did you come out ? ' ' 

"Only lost some three hundred dollars." 

"Why, that wasn't so bad," I remarked. 

* ' Oh, no ; it might have been a heap worse ; I got 
out cheap. One of my neighbors lost his ranche 
by his crop." 

"I suppose, then, that hay or something you 
could harvest with your own work would be bet- 



Boutkern California Before the Boom 135 

ter," said I, as soon as I had discovered the point 
of the last answer. 

"That's exactly what I thought; so I sowed it to 
barley for hay the next year. There was hardly 
any rain, and I had to pull it up by the roots to get 
any hay." 

"Why didn't you let your horse harvest it him- 
self?" said my friend, seeing that I was floored by 
the last answer. 

"Before it got big enough I had to give him 
away to keep from buying feed for him. The 
sheepmen used up all the grass within ten miles." 

"How long have you been here?" 

"Something like six thousand." 

"I asked how long you had been here." 

"Well, I tell you some six thousand. Don't you 
know yet how to measure time in this country ? ' ' 

' '■ Oh, yes, I take. But what have you done with 
it all?" 

"Well, there's nearly five hundred dollars of it 
in that orchard," said the rancher, pointing to a 
few rows of dead sticks in various stages of decay. 

"What is the matter with them?" 

"Cattle broke them all down rubbing against 
them. You may notice that good rubbing posts are 
scarce in this country." 

* ' Why didn 't you fence them in ? " 

"Did, but a fire came up the caiion one day and 
took it." 

"Your oranges don't seem very thrifty," con- 
tinued my friend, pointing to some sorrowful-look- 
ing trees, of Avhich one-half were brown and the 
rest a yellowish green. 



136 Pathtvay to Western Literature 

''I let them all go; it's too mucli trouble to man- 
age an irritating ditch," 

"A what?" I asked. 

''He means an irrigating ditch," suggested my 
companion. 

"No, I mean exactly what I said," said the 
granger — "an irritating ditch — the irritatingest 
thing on earth. AVhen you get ready to use it you 
find that a gopher has made a hole in the dam and 
let out all the water. You get the hole fixed and 
the dam filled again, and then you find a dozen 
gopher holes in the ditch. Each one of them will 
let out all the water, and you can't find the worst 
ones until you have turned in the water. Then by 
the time you get the ditch fixed another gopher has 
made a hole in the dam, and when you get that 
stopped there are some more gopher holes in the 
ditch. By the time you have it fixed it's dinner 
time, and by the time you are done smoking and 
get rested and ready for work it's so near night 
that you think it's better to wait till next day. If 
the gophers haven't got away with it again by that 
time you are in luck, and even if they haven't, the 
sides of the ditch are so dry that half the water is 
lost by seepage and evaporation, and by the time 
you have coaxed it around a dozen trees you wish 
you had never been born, especially when you re- 
flect that you have got to go over the whole pro- 
gram again in about three days more or the ground 
will bake as hard as a petrified brick. ' ' 

"Then what do you live on, if you don't raise 
anything?" asked my friend. 

"Credit. Haven't you been here long enough to 
learn that trick?" 



Southern California Before the Boom 137 

''I exhausted mine some time ago." 

''What are you doing, then?" asked the granger 
with more interest than he had yet shown. 

''Poising." 

"Poising? AVhat's that?" 

"Did you ever see a hawk poising — hanging still 
in the air watching for something to drop on? 
That's my business at present." 

"Well, as long as you can keep afloat on wind I 
would advise you not to drop on anything in this 
country. ' * 

' ' I suppose you might be induced to sell ? ' ' 

"Well — yes — I — might. I have made enough 
out of it, and would be willing to let some one else 
have a show. There is nothing small about me. ' * 

' ' And then what would you do ? " 

"Go to work for somebody that had a ranche. 
In two years I would own it. " 

"Yes, and he would turn around and work for 
you and get it back in another two years. ' * 

"Not much. I would be too smart to run an- 
other ranche in this country. I would luiload it on 
some tenderfoot." 

"Then you would return to the East, I suppose," 
I remarked. 

"Not a bit of it," replied the granger with an 
air of intense disgust. I like Southern California 
too well for my own good. She is a tricky damsel, 
first-rate to flirt with, but of no account as a busi- 
ness partner. But I love her in spite of her tricks, 
and not even the archangel's trump can ever raise 
my bones, from her soil." 

Emerging from the canyon in which lay the 
"ranche" of the bachelor granger, our way lay for 



138 Pathway to Western Literature 

miles over a dreary stretch of gray sand, half cov- 
ered with a thin and sorry-looking gray brush 
about knee-high. Scarcely a lobe even of cactus re- 
lieved the monotonous gray of the sand and brush. 
Scarcely a sign of life relieved the hot glare of the 
vast expanse of desert save an occasional hare sit- 
ting in the exasperating shade of some little low 
bush just thick enough to stop all the breeze and 
just thin enough to let through the last beam of 
the midday sun. Each hare looked weary and mad, 
yet wore withal a look of mild resignation akin to 
that of the granger we had just left. Nowhere 
within sight w^as there for him any means of sup- 
port, and yet it was evident that, like the granger, 
he did not wish to leave the country. It was from 
these two fixtures that I had my first conception 
of living on climate. 

The man who for an instant w^ould have dreamed 
of anyone living on this desert would have been 
deemed insane, and at that time probably Avould 
have been so. I could have bought thousands of 
acres of it for a song, but neither my companion 
nor I would have paid the land office fees to pre- 
empt the whole of it. And the oldest residents of 
the whole country w^ere the most pronounced of all 
in their opinion that it was utterly worthless for 
any purpose and for all time. 

Many a reader will take most of the above for a 
very weak attempt to be funny. But it is written 
in sober earnest, and does not describe one-half of 
the difficulties that then beset every man who de- 
parted from raising livestock and tried to coax a 
dollar or even w^orry a living out of the soil; ex- 
cept in a few places around Los Angeles, where 



The Lure of the Trail 139 

some money was made by sending a few oranges to 
the limited market of San Francisco. So universal 
were the troubles of the common farmer and fruit- 
grower that most of them were chronic grumblers, 
taking a positive satisfaction in relating their ex- 
perience. Everywhere one could hear people tell 
more harrowing tales than the one above ; and they 
would tell it with genuine gusto, and apparently 
with more satisfaction before a stranger than when 
alone. Many an hour's amusement the writer has 
had from sea coast to mountain top, drawing out 
the unfortunate by questions which he soon learned 
to frame. Yet with all their troubles they were all 
like the bachelor granger and the hare. They were 
all mad and sad, but none of them wanted to leave 
the country. Although nearly every place in the 
land was for sale, it was not to get money with 
which to leave the country, but to repeat the same 
folly somewhere on another place that seemed to 
have better conditions. 

As long as production was subject to so many 
drawbacks there was no prospect of a boom, and 
nobody thought of any. But in the next ten years 
the land underwent a change which was probably 
the most rapid and radical that the world has ever 
seen. — From ''Millionaires of a Day." 



THE LUEE OF THE TRAIL 

By Stewart Edward White 

THE trail's call depends not at all on your com- 
mon sense. You know you are a fool for 
answering it; and yet you go. The comforts of 



110 Pathway to Western Literature 

civilization, to put the case on its lowest plane, are 
not lightly to be renounced; the ease of having 
your physical labor done for you ; the joy of culti- 
vated minds, of theaters, of books, of participation 
in the world's progress ; these you leave behind you. 
And in exchange you enter a life where there is 
much long, hard work of the hands — work that is 
really hard and long, so that no man paid to labor 
would consider it for a moment; you undertake to 
eat simply, to endure much, to lie on the rack of 
anxiety ; you voluntarily place yourself where cold, 
wet, hunger, thirst, heat, monotony, danger and 
many discomforts will wait upon you daily. A 
thousand times in the course of a woods life even 
the stoutest hearted will tell himself softly — very 
softly — if he is really stout-hearted, so that others 
may not be annoyed — that if ever the fates permit 
him to extricate himself he will never venture 
again. 

These times come when long continuance has 
worn on the spirit. You beat all day to windward 
against the tide toward what should be but an 
hour's sail; the sea is high and the spray cold; 
there are sunken rocks, and food there is none; 
chill, gray evening draws dangerously near, and 
there is a foot of water in the bilge. You have 
swallowed your tongue twenty times on the alkali ; 
and the sun is melting hot, and the dust dry and 
pervasive; and there is no water, and for all your 
effort the relative distances seem to remain the 
same for days. 

You have carried a pack until your every muscle 
is strung white-hot; the woods are breathless; the 
black flies swarm persistently and bite until your 



The Lure of the Trail 141 

face is covered with blood. You have struggled 
through clogging snow until each time you raise 
your snowshoe you feel as though some one had 
stabbed a little sharp knife into your groin ; it has 
come to be night; the mercury is away below zero, 
and with aching fingers you are to prepare a camp 
which is only an anticipation of many more such 
camps in the ensuing days. For a week it has 
rained, so that you, pushing through the dripping 
brush, are soaked and sodden and comfortless, and 
the bushes have become horrible to your shrinking 
goose-flesh. Or you are just plain tired out, not 
from a single day's fatigue, but from the gradual 
exhaustion of a long hike. Then in your secret 
soul you utter these sentiments : 

''You are a fool. This is not fun. There is no 
real reason why you should do this. If you ever 
get out of here you will stick right home where 
common sense flourishes, my son ! ' ' 

Then after a time you do get out, and are thank- 
ful. But in three months you will have proved in 
your own experience the following axiom — I should 
call it the widest truth the wilderness has to teach : 

"In memory the pleasures of a camping trip 
strengthen with time, and the disagreeables 
weaken." 

I don't care how hard an experience you have 
had, nor how little of the pleasant has been min- 
gled with it, in three months your general impres- 
sion of that trip will be good. You will look Sack 
on the hard times with a certain fondness of recol- 
lection. 

I remember one trip I took in the early spring 
following a long drive on the Pine River. It rained 



142 Pathiuay to Western Literature 

steadily for six days. A¥e were soaked to the skin 
all the time, ate standing up in the driving down- 
pour, and slept wet. So cold was it that each 
morning our blankets were so full of frost that 
they crackled stiffly Avhen we turned out. Dis- 
passionately I can appraise that as about the worst 
I ever got into. Yet as an impression the Pine 
River trip seems to me a most enjoyable one. 

So after you have been home for a little while 
the call begins to make itself heard. At first it is 
very gentle. But little by little a restlessness seizes 
hold of you. You do not know exactly what is the 
matter ; you are aware merely that your customary 
life has lost savor, that you are doing things more 
or less perfunctorily, and that you are a little more 
irritable than your naturally evil disposition. 

And gradually it is borne in on you exactly what 
is the matter. Then say you to yourself : 

**My son, you know better. You are no tender- 
foot. You have had too long an experience to ad- 
mit of any glamour of indefiniteness about this 
thing. No use bluffing. You know exactly how 
hard you Avill have to work, and how much tribu- 
lation you are going to get into, and how hungry 
and wet and cold and tired and generally frazzled 
out you are going to be. You've been there enough 
times, so it 's pretty clearly impressed on you. You 
go into this thing with your eyes open. You know 
what you're in for. You're pretty well off right 
here, and you 'd be a fool to go. ' ' 

''That's right," says yourself to you. **You're 
dead right about it, old man. Do you know where 
we can get another mule-pack?" — From *'The 
Mountains. ' ' 



Ben Franklin 143 

BEN FRANKLIN 

By James C. Adams 

IT is with pleasure that I dwell upon this part of 
my story, and I would fain distinguish it with 
living words. In all the after-course of my career, 
I could look back upon it with peculiar satisfac- 
tion ; and rarely, in the following years, did I pat 
the shaggy coat of my noble Ben but I recurred to 
my fatiguing and solitary vigils in the Mariposa 
canon, my combat with the monster grizzly, my 
entry in her den, and seizure of her offspring. The 
whole adventure is impressed upon my memory as 
if it had occurred but yesterday. 

No sooner was the dam dead than I turned to- 
w^ards the den, and determined to enter it without 
delay. Approaching its mouth, accordingly, I 
knelt, and tried to peer in ; but all was dark, silent 
and ominous. What dangers might lurk in that 
mysterious gloom it was impossible to tell ; nor 
was it without a tremor that I prepared to explore 
its depths. I trembled for a moment at the thought 
of another old bear in the den; but on second 
thought I assured myself of the folly of such an 
idea; for an occurrence of this kind would have 
been against all experience. But in such a situa- 
tion a man imagines many things, and fears much 
at which he afterward laughs; and therefore, 
though there was really no difficulty to anticipate, 
I carefully loaded my rifle and pistol, and carried 
my arms as if the next instant I Avas to be called 
upon to fight for life. Being thus prepared, I took 
from my pocket a small torch made of pine splin- 



144 Pathivay to Western Literature 

ters, lighted it, and placing my rifle in the moutH 
of the den, with the torch in my left and the pistol 
in my right hand, I dropped upon my knees and 
began to crawl in. 

The entrance consisted of a rough hole, three 
feet wide and four feet high. It extended inward 
nearly horizontally, and almost without a turn, foi^ 
six feet, where there was a chamber six or eight 
feet in diameter and five feet high, giving me room 
to rise upon my knees, but not to stand up — and its 
entire floor was thickly carpeted with leaves and 
grass. On the first look, I could see no animals, 
and felt grievously disappointed ; but, as I crawled 
around, there was a rustling in the leaves; and, 
bending down with my torch, I discovered two 
beautiful little cubs, which could not have been 
over a week old, as their eyes, which open in eight 
or ten days, were still closed. I took the little 
sprawlers, one after the other, by the nape of the 
neck, lifted them up to the light and found 
them very lively. They were both males; a cir- 
cumstance which gave me reason to presume there 
might be a third cub, for it is frequent that a litter 
consists of three, and I looked carefully; but no 
other was to be found. I concluded, therefore, that 
if there had been a third, the dam had devoured it 
— a thing she often, and, if a cub dies, or be de- 
formed, always does. Satisfying myself that 
there were no others, I took the two, and, placing 
them in my bosom, between my buckskin and 
woolen shirt, once more emerged into daylight. 

The possession of the prizes delighted me so 
much that I almost danced my way down through 
the bushes and over the uneven ground to the spot 



Ben Franklin 145 

where my mule had been left; but, upon arriving 
there, it gave me great concern to find that she 
was gone. At first, I thought surely she had been 
stolen; but, as my bag of dried venison remained 
undisturbed upon the tree, and much more as the 
tracks of a panther were to be seen in the neigh- 
borhood, I became convinced that she had been at- 
tacked by my disturber of the previous night and 
had broken away. Indeed, upon further examina- 
tion, I found her track, leading off through the 
chaparral ; and, following it over a hill and through 
another canon, at length found her grazing in a 
grassy valley. She seemed much frightened at 
first upon seeing me, but when I called her "Betz," 
she stopped, turned around, looked, and then came 
up, apparently glad to meet me again. Her 
haunches bore several deep and fresh scratches, 
which were still more convincing evidences to my 
mind that Ihe panther had sprung upon her, but 
that she had broken loose and escaped. 

Mounting the mule, I returned to the dead bear, 
and, cutting her up, packed a portion of her meat ; 
the remainder I left in the mouth of the den; and, 
turning my face out of the ravine, I proceeded in 
excellent spirits, bearing the cubs still in my bosom, 
toward the camp of my companions. Upon reach- 
ing there, shortly after dark, I showed Solon what 
I had accomplished; and, placing the cubs before 
him, chose one for my own and presented him with 
the other. He thought that this was more than h'.s 
share ; but I insisted upon his receiving it, and h.i 
did so with a thankful heart. He asked me the 
story of the capture, and I told it, from the mo- 
ment of my leaving camp to my return. He won- 



146 Pathway to Western Literature 

dered much at my patient watching in the juniper 
bushes, and said he would not have done it, but 
still he wished he had been with me — and thus we 
went on talking, till the dying embers admonished 
us of the lateness of the hour. Before retiring, 
Solon christened his cub General Jackson ; I re- 
marked that General Jackson was a great man in 
his way, but I would call my bear Ben Franklin — 
a greater name. Such was the manner that, in one 
and the same day, I captured and christened my 
noble Ben. 

The condition of my poor Ben, as he lay panting 
on the sand of the San Joaquin plains, unable to 
follow me any further, and looking up affection- 
ately, but despairingly, from the midst of his pain, 
in my face, grieved me to the heart, and gave me 
great uneasiness. He was my favorite; I could 
well have spared any other animal rather than 
Ben; and I feared he would die. I reproached 
myself for having brought no water along, but as 
the fault could not be helped by reproaches, I 
hastily split some pieces of board from my Avagon, 
and erecting a frame and throwing a large blanket 
over it, so as to make shade, left Ben and Rambler 
there, and then I drove on with the intention of 
procuring water and returning more speedily than 
Drury, who had no interests at stake, would be dis- 
posed to do. In the course of four or five miles I 
met Drury with his bag of water; and hastily 
handing him the reins, with directions to drive on, 
I mounted the horse and galloped back to where 
Ben lay suffering. It was dark when I reached 
him, and to all appearances he had not moved from 



Ben Franhlin 147 

the position in which I left him. He had life 
enough, however, to express his gratitude, and 
drank several quarts of water with avidity. I 
then endeavored to coax him along, and he took a 
few steps ; but neither flattery nor blows could in- 
duce him to move far. 

Seeing that it was impossible to get him along, 
I again let him lie, and rode ahead for the Avagon, 
which I found at the side of a spring. The mules 
and horses were turned out to graze, and Drury 
Avas lying asleep at the fire, which he had hastily 
kindled. I roused him and ordered him to assist 
in hitching up the wagon again, to go back for 
Ben. He obeyed, and we soon unloaded the heav- 
iest of our articles, and, leaving them at the spring, 
drove back. As the country, however, was new to 
us and the night dark, we by some means or other 
missed the way, and could see no signs of what we 
sought. We looked about all night till daylight, 
but there was no Ben in sight. I at last sent 
Drury in one direction and myself took another, by 
which means we succeeded in a few hours in find- 
ing the trail, and finally discovered the bear lying 
under his blanket. AVe gave him water again, but 
still he could not walk, and we had to place him in 
the wagon — which could not be done without some 
difficulty, as by that time he would weigh in the 
neighborhood of four hundred pounds. AVhen at 
last we did get him in, partly by our own strength 
and partly by his assistance, we drove on to the 
spring and camped. 

On account of the bear's condition, we were com- 
pelled to remain two days at this spring, during 
which time I doctored him. My treatment met 



148 Pathivay to Western Literature 

with success, and we soon got him on his legs again. 
In the meanwhile, as his feet continued sore, I 
made moccasins, as I had done on the Humboldt 
plains, and poured bear's oil in them — which was 
an excellent salve for the blisters. The moccasins 
were bound tightly to the feet, and a muzzle was 
put over the nose, to prevent him from tearing 
them off. They worked well and on the third day 
after reaching the spring we hitched up again and 
drove on to the edge of Tulare Lake. — From ''The 
Adventures of Jam.es Capen Adams." 



THE MAEIPOSA LILY 

By Ina Coolbbith 

INSECT or blossom? Fragile, fairy thing, 
Poised upon slender tip, and quivering 

To flight ! a flower of the fields of air ; 

A jeweled moth ; a butterfly, with rare 
And tender tints upon his downy wing 

A moment resting in our happy sight ; 

A flower held captive by a thread so slight 
Its petal-wings of broidered gossamer 
Are light as the wind, w^ith every wind astir, 

Wafting sweet odor, faint and exquisite, 
O dainty nursling of the field and sky, 

What fairer thing looks up to heaven's blue 

And drinks the noontide sun, the dawning 's 
dew ? 
Thou winged bloom ! thou blossom — butterfly ! 

— From ' ' Songs From the Golden Gate. ' ' 



Thirst of the Donner Party 149 

THIEST OF THE DONNER PARTY 

By C. T. McGlashan 

ON the sixth day of September they reached a 
meadow in a valley called ''Twenty Wells," 
as there were that number of wells of various sizes, 
from six inches to several feet in diameter. The 
water in these wells rose even with the surface of 
the ground, and when it was drawn out the wells 
soon refilled. The water was cold and pure, and 
peculiarly welcome after the saline plains and 
alkaline pools they had just passed. Wells similar 
to these were found during the entire journey of 
the following day, and the country through which 
they were passing abounded in luxuriant grass. 
Reaching the confines of the Salt Lake Desert, 
which lies southwest of the lake, they laid in, as 
they supposed, an ample supply of water and 
grass. This desert has been represented by Bridger 
and Vasquez as being only about fifty miles wide. 
Instead, for a distance of seventy-five miles there 
was neither w^ater nor grass, but everywhere a 
dreary, desolate, alkaline waste. Verily, it was 

"A region of drought, where no river glides, 
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount. 
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount 
Appears to refresh the aching eye, 
But the barren earth and the burning sky, 
And the blank horizon round and round 
Spread, void of living sight or sound." 

When the company had been on the desert two 
nights and one day, Mr. Reed volunteered to go f or- 
11 



150 Patlnuay to Western Literature 

ward, and, if possible, to discover water. His hired 
teamsters were attending to his teams and wagons 
during his absence. At a distance of perhaps 
twenty miles he found the desired water, and 
hastened to return to the train. Meantime there 
was intense suffering in the party. Cattle were 
giving out and lying down helplessly on the burn- 
ing sand, or, frenzied with thirst, were straying 
away into the desert. Having made preparations 
for only fifty miles of desert, several persons came 
near perishing of thirst, and cattle were utterly 
powerless to draw the heavy wagons. Reed was 
gone some twenty hours. During this time his 
teamsters had done the wisest thing possible, un- 
hitched the oxen and started to drive them ahead 
until water was reached. It was their intention, 
of course, to return and get the three wagons and 
the family, which they had necessarily abandoned 
on the desert. Reed passed his teamsters during 
the night, and hastened to the relief of his deserted 
family. One of his teamster's horses gave out be- 
fore morning and lay down, and while the man's 
companions were attempting to raise him, the oxen, 
rendered unmanageable by their great thirst, dis- 
appeared in the desert. There were eighteen of 
these oxen. It is probable they scented water, and 
with the instincts of their nature started out to 
search for it. They never were found, and Reed 
and his family, consisting of nine persons, were 
left destitute in the midst of the desert, eight hun- 
dred miles from California. Near morning, en- 
tirely ignorant of the calamity which had befallen 
him in the loss of his cattle, he reached his family. 
All day long they looked and waited in vain for 



Thirst of the Bonner Party 151 

the returning teamsters. All the rest of the com- 
pany had driven ahead, and the majority had 
reached water. Toward night the situation grew 
desperate. The scanty supply of water left with 
the family was almost gone, and another day on 
the desert would mean death to all he held dear. 
Their only way left was to set out on foot. He 
took his youngest child in his arms, and the family 
started to walk the twenty miles. During this 
dreadful night some of the younger children he- 
came so exhausted that, regardless of scoldings or 
encouragements, they lay down on the bleak sands. 
Even rest, however, seemed denied the little suf- 
ferers, for a chilling wind began sweeping over the 
desert, and despite their weariness and anguish, 
they were forced to move forward. At one time 
during the night the horror of the situation was 
changed to intense fright. Through the darkness 
came a swift-rushing animal, which Reed soon rec- 
ognized as one of his young steers. It was crazed 
and frenzied with thirst, and for some moments 
seemed bent upon dashing into the frightened 
group. Finally, however, it plunged madly away 
into the night, and was seen no more. Reed sus- 
pected the calamity which had prevented the return 
of the teamsters, but at that moment, the immi- 
nent peril surrounding his wife and children ban- 
ished all thoughts of worrying about anything but 
their present situation. God knows what would 
have become of them if they had not, soon after 
daylight, discovered the wagon of Jacob Donner. 
They were received kindly by his family, and con- 
veyed to where the other members of the party 
were camped. For six or eight days the entire 



152 PatJnvay to Western Literature 

company remained at this spot. Every effort was 
made to find Reed 's lost cattle. Almost every man 
ing this search. The desert mirage disclosed againsH: 
directions. This task was attended with both diffi- 
culty and danger; for when the sun shone, the 
atmosphere appeared to distort and magnify ob- 
jects so that at the distance of a mile every stone 
or bush would appear the size of an ox. Several 
of the men came near dying for want of water dur- 
ing this search. The desert mirage disclosed against 
the horizon, clear, distinct and perfectly outlined 
rocks, mountain peaks and tempting lakelets. Each 
jagged cliff, or pointed rock, or sharply-curved hill- 
top, hung suspended in air as perfect and complete 
as if photographed on the sky. Deceived, deluded 
by these mirages, in spite of their better judgment, 
several members of the company were led far out 
into the pathless depths of the desert. 

The outlook for Reed was gloomy enough. One 
cow and one ox were the only stock he had remain- 
ing. The company were getting exceedingly im- 
patient over the long delay, yet be it said to their 
honor, they encamped on the western verge of the 
desert until every hope of finding Reed 's cattle was 
abandoned. Finally, F. W. Graves and Patrick 
Breen each lent an ox to Mr. Reed, and by yoking 
up his remaining cow and ox, he had two yoke of 
cattle. ''Cacheing," or concealing such of his 
property on the desert, as could not be placed in 
one wagon, he hitched the two yoke of cattle to this 
wagon and proceeded on the journey. — From ** His- 
tory of the Donner Party. ' ' 



starvation of the Donner Party 153 

STAEVATION OF THE DONNER PARTY 

By C. T. McGlashan 

IN the very complete account of this trip, which 
is kindly furnished by Mary Graves, are many 
interesting particulars concerning the suffering of 
these days. ''Our only chance for camp-fire for 
the night," she says, 'Svas to hunt a dead tree of 
some description, and set fire to it. The hemlock 
being the best and generally much the largest tim- 
ber, it was our custom to select the driest we could 
find without leaving our course. When the fire 
would reach the top of the tree, the falling limbs 
would fall around us and bury themselves in the 
snow, but we heeded them not. Sometimes the 
falling, blazing limbs would brush our clothes, but 
they never hit us ; that would have been too lucky a 
hit. We would sit or lie on the snow, and rest our 
weary frames. We would sleep, only to dream of 
something nice to eat, and awake again to disap- 
pointment. Such was our sad fate! Even the 
reindeer's wretched lot was not worse! 'His din- 
ner and his bed were snow, and supper he had 
not.' Our fare was the same! We would strike 
fire by means of the flint-lock gun which we had 
with us. This had to be carried by turns, as it 
was considered the only hope left us in case we 
might find game which we could kill. We traveled 
over a ridge of mountains, and then descended a 
deep canon, where one could scarcely see the bot- 
tom. Down, down we would go, or rather slide, 
for it is very slavish work going down hill, and in 
many cases we were compelled to slide on our shoes 



154 Pathway to Western Literature 

as sleds. On reaching the bottom we would plungo 
into the snow, so that it was difficult getting out, 
with the shoes tied to our feet, our packs lashed to 
our backs, and ourselves head and ears under the 
snow. But we managed to get out some way, and 
one by one reached the bottom of the caiion. When 
this was accomplished we had to ascend a hill as 
steep as the one we had descended. We would 
drive the toes of our shoes into the loose snow, to 
make a sort of step, and one by one, as if ascending 
stair-steps, we climbed up. It took us an entire 
day to reach the top of the mountain. Each time 
we attained the summit of a mountain, we hoped 
we should be able to see something like a valley, 
but each time came disappointment, for far ahead 
was always another and higher mountain. We 
found some springs, or, as we called them, wells, 
from five to twenty feet under ground, as you 
might say, for they were under the snow on which 
we walked. The water was so warm that it melted 
the snow, and from some of these springs w^ere 
large streams of running w^ater. We crossed num- 
bers of these streams on bridges of snow, which 
would sometimes form upon a blade of grass hang- 
ing over the water ; and from as small a foundation 
would grow a bridge from ten to twenty-five feet 
high, and from a foot and a half to three feet 
across the top. It would make you dizzy to look 
down at the water and it was with much difficulty 
we could place our clumsy ox-bow snow-shoes one 
ahead of the other without falling. Our feet had 
been frozen and thawed so many times that they 
were bleeding and sore. When we stopped at 
night we would take off our shoes, which by this 



starvation of the Bonner Party 155 

time were so badly rotted I5y constant wetting in 
snow, that there was very little left of them. In 
the morning we would push our shoes on, bruising 
and numbing the feet so badly that they would 
ache and ache with walking and the cold, until 
night would come again. Oh ! the pain ! it seemed 
to make the pangs of hunger more excruciating.'^ 

Thus the party traveled on day after day, until 
absolute starvation again stared them in the face. 
The snow had gradually grown less deep, until it 
finally disappeared or lay only in patches. Their 
strength was well-nigh exhausted, when one day 
Mary Graves says: ''Some one called out, 'Here 
are tracks!' Some one asked, 'What kind of 
tracks — human ? " ' Yes, human ! ' Can anyone 
imagine the joy these footprints gave us ? "We ran 
as fast as our strength would carry us. ' ' 

Turning a chaparral point, they came in full view 
of an Indian rancheria. The uncivilized savages 
were amazed. Never had they seen such forlorn, 
wretched, pitiable human beings as the tattered, 
disheveled, skeleton creatures who stood stretching 
out their arms for assistance. At first they all 
ran and hid, but soon they returned to the aid of 
these dying wretches. It is said that the Indian 
women and children cried, and wailed with grief 
at the affecting spectacle of starved men and wo- 
men. Such food as they had was speedily offered. 
It was bread made of acorns. This was eagerly 
eaten. It was at least a substitute for food. Every 
person in the rancheria, from the toddling papooses 
to the aged chief, endeavored to aid them. 

After what had recently happened, could any- 



156 Pathway to Western Literature 

thing be more touching than these acts of kind- 
ness of the Indians ? 

After briefly resting, they pressed forward. The 
Indians accompanied them and even led them, and 
constantly supplied them with food. With food? 
No, it was not such food as their weakened, debili- 
tated systems craved. The acorn bread was not 
sufficient to sustain lives already so attenuated by 
repeated starvations. All that the starved experi- 
ence in the way of pain and torture before they 
die had been experienced by these people at least 
four different times. To their horror, they now dis- 
covered that despite the acorn bread they must die 
of hunger and exhaustion a fifth and last time. So 
sick and weak did they become that they were 
compelled to lie down and rest every hundred 
yards. Finally, after being with the Indians seven 
days, they lay down, and felt that they never 
should have strength to take another step. Before 
them, in all its beauty and loveliness, spread the 
broad valley of the Sacramento. Behind them were 
the ever-pleading faces of their starving dear ones. 
Yet neither hope nor affection could give them 
further strength. They were dying in full view 
of the long-desired haven ci re ^t. — From ' ' The His- 
tory of the Donner Party,'" 



A Song of Autumn 157 

A SONG OF AUTUMN 

By Henry Meade Bland 

'npiS old autumn, the musician, 
A Who, with pipe and tabor, weaves 

The sweet music lovers sigh for 
In the falling of the leaves. 

I have heard his distant anthem 

Go a-sighing through the trees 
Mke the far-off shouts of children, 

Or the hum of swarming bees. 

When he plays the leaflets flutter 
On the boughs that hold them fast; 

Or they scurry through the forest 
Or they spin before the blast. 

And they frolic and they gambol. 
And they cling to autumn's gown 

As the children to the Piper's 
In the famous Hamelin Town. 

Then they rustle and they hurry 

To a canyon dark and deep ; 
And the Piper, dear old autumn, 

Pipes till he is fast asleep. 

— From ''Poems." 



158 Pathway to Western Literature 

SAN GABRIEL VALLEY 

By Theodore Van Dyke 

BUT to see at its best the loveliest part of South- 
ern California, as improved, one must descend 
into its great valley of San Gabriel. The Sierra 
Madre Mountains that form its northern wall rise 
with a sudden sweep much higher above the valley 
than most of the great mountains of our country 
rise above the land at their feet, lifting one at once 
into a different climate and to a country where 
primeval wildness still reigns supreme. Few parts 
of the United States are less known and less trav- 
ersed than these great hills; yet they look down 
upon the very garden of all California. Away up 
there the mountain trout flashes undisturbed in the 
hissing brook, and the call of the mountain quail 
rings from the shady glen where the grizzly bear 
yet dozes away the day, secure as in the olden time. 
From the bristling points where the lilac and man- 
zanita light up the dark hue of the surrounding 
chaparral the deer yet looks down upon the plain 
from w^hich the antelope has long since been driven ; 
while on the lofty ridges that lie in such clear out- 
line against the distant sky the mountain sheep 
still lingers, safe in its inaccessible home. 

But a few years ago this valley of San Gabriel 
was a long open stretch of wavy slopes and low 
rolling hills, in winter robed in velvety green and 
spangled with myriads of flowers all strange to 
Eastern eyes, in summer brown with sun-dried 
grass, or silvery gray where light rippled over the 
wild oats. Here and there stood groves of huge 



San Gahriel Valley 159 

live oaks, beneath whose broad time-bowed heads 
thousands of cattle stamped away the noons of 
summer. Around the old mission, whose bells have 
rung over the valley for a century, a few houses 
were grouped ; but beyond this there was scarcely 
a sign of man's work except the far-off speck of a 
herdsman looming in the mirage, or the white walls 
of the old Spanish ranch house glimmering afar 
through the hazy sunshine in which the silent land 
lay always sleeping. 

The old bells of the mission still clang in brazen 
discord as before, and the midnight yelp of the 
coyote may yet be heard as he comes in from the 
outlying hills to inspect the new breeds of chickens 
that civilization has brought in; a few scattered 
live oaks still nod to each other in memory of the 
past, and along the low hills far off in the south 
the light still plays upon the waving wild oats ; but 
nearly all else has changed as no other part of the 
world has ever changed. Nearly all is now covered 
with a luxuriant growth of vegetation the most di- 
verse, yet all of it foreign to the soil. Side by side 
are the products of two zones, reaching the highest 
stagesof perfection, yet none of them natives of this 
coast. Immense vineyards of the tenderest grapes 
of Southern Spain, or Italy, yielding five or six 
tons to the acre, lie by the side of fields of wheat, 
Avhose heads and berry far excel in size and full- 
ness the finest ever seen in the famed fields of Min- 
nesota or Dakota. Here the barley gives often a 
return that no northern land can equal, and by its 
side the orange tree outdoes its race in the farthest 
South, and keeps its fruit in perfection when those 
of other lands have failed. 



160 PatJnvay to Western Literature 

Gay cottages now line the roads where the hare 
so recently cantered along the dusty cattle trail; 
and villages lie brightly green with a wealth of fol- 
iage where the roaring wings of myriads of quail 
shook the air above impenetrable jungles of cactus. 
Houses furnished in all the styles of modern deco- 
rative art rise in all directions, embowered in 
roses, geraniums, heliotropes and lilies that bloom 
the long year 'round and reach a size that makes 
them hard to recognize as old friends. Among 
them rise the Banana, the palm, the aloe, the rubber 
tree, and the pampas grass with its tall, feathery 
plumes. Perhaps the camphor tree and a dozen 
other foreign woods are scattered around them, 
while the lawns shine w^ith grasses unknown in 
other parts of the United States. The broad head 
and drooping arms of the Mexican pepper tree fill 
along the road the sunny openings that the stately 
shaft of the Australian eucalyptus has failed to 
shade ; and on every hand, instead of homely fences, 
are hedges of Monterey cypress, lime, pomegranate, 
arbor vitae, or acacia. Here and there one sees the 
guava, the Japanese persimmon, Japanese plum, or 
some similar exotic, cultivated, like the olive and 
quince and lemon, for pleasure more than profit; 
but grapes and oranges are the principal products. 
Yet there are groves of English walnuts almost 
rivaling in size the great orange orchards; and 
orchards of prunes, nectarines, apricots, plums, 
pears, peaches and apples that are little behind in 
size or productiveness. The deep green of the al- 
falfa may here and there contrast with the lighter 
green of the grape, but vineyards of enormous 



The Poet's Wealth 161 

size, some a mile square, make all beside them look 
small. — From ''Southern California.'' 



w 



THE POET'S WEALTH 

By Richabd Realf 

HO says the poet's lot is hard? 

Who says it is with misery rife ? 
Who pities the deluded bard 
That dreams away his life ? 
Go thou and give thy sympathy 

Unto the crowd of common men ; 
The poet needs it not, for he 
Hath joys beyond our ken. 

Yea, he hath many a broad domain 

Which thou, man, hath never seen. 
Where never comes the pelting rain 

Or stormy winter keen. 
There ever balmy is the air, 

And ever smiling are the skies, 
For beauty ever blossoms there — 

Beauty that never dies. 

There sportive fancy loves to roam 

And cull the sweets from every flower, 
While meditation builds her home 

Beneath some forest bower; 
There, too, the poet converse holds 

With spirits of the long ago, 
And dim futurity unfolds 

Secrets for him to know. 



[From "Poems by Richard Realf." Copyright by Funk & 
Wagnalls, New York and London.] 



162 Pathivay to Western Literature 

Then say not that in wretchedness 

The poet spends his weary days, 
Say not that hunger and distress 

Are guerdon for his lays; 
But rather say that lack of gold 

Unto the bard is greatest bliss, 
And say, he is not earth-controlled 

AVhilst owning wealth like this. 

— From ''Poems." 



ASCENT OF MT. KAINIEE 

By Ada Woodruff Anderson 

THE summer day breaks early in the Puget 
Sound country. It was not yet four by Strat- 
ton's watch when he stepped from his tent and 
stood analyzing the weather, but all the sky over- 
head was changing to yellow, and directly, while 
he looked, to streaks of flame. The heights, tower- 
ing a thousand feet on the opposite side of the 
gorge, were burnished copper, and Rainier, walling 
the top of the canon, warmed to amethyst and rose. 
Its crest, at an altitude of nearly fifteen thousand 
feet, was hardly seven miles distant. 

But the great forest that hemmed in the small 
open where the camp was pitched still gloomed in 
shadow, and the air was sharp with the near breath 
of the glacier and snowfield. Stratton saw that 
Mose had left his blanket, gone already to bring 
up the horses, and the close report of a gun told 
that Kingsley was off in search of the early bird. 
Then Samantha came from the other tent and stir- 



[From "The Heart of the Red Firs," by Ada Woodruff 
Anderson. Copyright, 1908, by Little, Brown & Co.] 



Ascent of Mt. Rainier 163 

red the smouldering fire. She added a dry hem- 
locli bough, watching the roused flames fasten on 
the resinous wood. 

''Good morning, Psyche," he said. 

She lifted her glance, nodding. She had a mouth 
like a Cupid's bow and the short upper lip 
twitched with enforced gravity before the shaft 
sped. ''Ef you hed er wife, I 'low she'd get or 
new name 'bout everj^ day, an' mebbe twicet. Land, 
it 'ud keep her busy rememberin ' who she was. ' ' 

An hour later the little cavalcade formed in line, 
with Kingsley leading on his big white horse, fol- 
lowed Hy Samantha, whose clear piping voice rose 
in alternate upbraiding or admonition, for she ro:l? 
the indifferent Ginger. Mose, mounted on Yelm, 
Jim's piebald pony, crowded the cayuse with the 
two pack animals ; then came Louise and the teach- 
er, while Stratton closed the rear. 

The trail became more and more precipitous, 
switch-backing across the face of a spur, taking the 
edge of a cliff, breaking into sharp pitches to a 
rushing ford. Trunks, logs, netlike boughs, shelv- 
ing rock crowded close. The head of the Nisqually 
and its glacier w^ere not far off. Then they turned 
up its beautiful tributary, the Paradise. Over the 
stream Eagle Peak, the first of the Tatoosh Moun- 
tains, lifted a tremendous front, and boulders 
hurled from it, blocked the limpid current, creat- 
ing innumerable cascades. The air was flooded 
with drifting spray, and the wet, luxuriant earth, 
reflecting the sun, filled the gorge with playing 
color. 

Then finally they trailed out of the heavy timber 
into the parks of Paradise. A succession of em- 



164 Pathway to Western Literature 

erald slopes opened before them, broken by clumps 
of amabilis fir and mountain hemlock; where a 
higher top rose out of a shapely mass it became a 
cathedral spire. Sometimes the way wound through 
an area of blooming heliotrope or asters; banks of 
gorgeous snapdragon or flaming Indian paintl)rush 
gave color, like landscape gardening, to whole hill- 
sides. Then behind them, pinnacle on pinnacle, 
closed the Tatoosh range; a last sharp ascent and 
they were on that small and lofty plateau, at an al- 
titude of five thousand feet, since called The Camp 
of Clouds, with the splendor of the great summit 
almost overhead. 

The tents were pitched ; horses picketed. It was 
hardly mid-afternoon. ''By this time tomorrow," 
said Kingsley, "if this weather stays with us, we 
shall have made and I hope passed Gibraltar." 

Stratton, lounging on a blanket, looked up to the 
black cliff, which, rising sheer fifteen hundred feet, 
stood like a mighty fortress against the whiteness 
of the dome. "I hope so," he answered, "but. 
Captain, I never saw anything look so tremendous- 
ly like work. ' ' 

Louise rested on a grassy knob, her hands clasped 
loosely on her knee, inspiration in her lifted face. 
She hardly heard her husband's remark, or the 
other 's man reply, but Alice started from her place 
beside her. "Phil," she said, "take me with you. 
You can't understand what it means to me, to be 
so near, to see the summit shining there, and go no 
farther. I'm very strong, Phil, and clear-headed. 
I'm not afraid of things. I — oh, you don't under- 
stand, but the mountains seem to beckon." 



Ascent of Mt. Eainier 165 

Kingsley walked a restless turn. ''I do under- 
stand/' he said. ''I feel it myself. But we don't 
know what we are going through, and we can't be 
sure of the weather an hour ahead ; clouds are 
manufactured right here at a moment's notice. 
But wait, don't tease, and we'll compromise. I'm 
going off now to reconnoiter. I believe the most 
feasible start is from that ridge across this valley 
of the Paradise, but I want to be sure. There'll be 
no time to waste in doubling back for fresh starts 
to-morrow. And IMose has been up that way; he 
says, with care we can use the horses as far as the 
old snow. A glacier cuts in there, probably the 
source of the Cowlitz, and he thinks we should be 
able to reach it in a couple of hours. I'll take you 
that far — to the glacier." 

At this Mose started from his recumbent position 
on the earth. He threw out his arms in protest. 
' ' No, no, ]\Iees, ' ' he said, * ' It ees bes ' you doan ' go 
dare. Sacre, no." 

"I'm not afraid," she answered, smiling, ''and 
if I'm a trouble, I'll turn back. I promise." 

''You doan' be some tro'ble, Mees," he said, 
quickly. "No, no, it ees dat Tyee Sahgalee ees 
goin' be mad. Mebbe he ees mek dis mountain 
burn an' break an' fall down. Monjee, monjee, 
Mees, you can't ride quick 'nough away." 

She laughed, shaking her head. "I don't believe 
that, Mose," she said, "and you won't, after we 
have been there. Tyee Sahgalee don't care how 
many of us go creeping up there any more than 
we care about the ants and spiders that crawl to the 
cabin door." 

The horses were brought and presently they were 
12 



166 Pathway to Western Literature 

trailing up the pathless slopes in the wake of the 
piebald pony; fording countless streams, leaping 
them, sinking in pitfalls through treacherous banks 
of bloom. When, switch-backing up a loftly rise, 
Alice ventured to look down, all the colored breadth 
of Paradise Park unfolded like a map, and the 
dome gathered majesty at every turn. They gained 
a shoulder, rounded a curve, and before them 
stretched the levels of a plateau carpeted with 
snow. Then, as they moved across this field, moun- 
tain on mountain opened, shading to blue distance. 
Through a gap, out of a Avoolly cloud, shone the 
opal crown of Adams, and presently, far off St. 
Helens rose like a floating berg on an uptossed sea. 

They dismounted at the foot of a knob flanked by 
loose rock. The red stain of old snow was under 
their feet, and beyond the spur shone the clean, 
blue-green edge of the glacier. ''We are higher 
than the treeline, now," said Philip, "and above 
the clouds." 

She drew a breath of delight, lifting her glance 
to the near dome. "And it looks as though we 
could reach the summit in fifteen or twenty min- 
utes. Oh, Phil, come, let's go." 

Kingsley laughed. "We haven't climbed nine 
thousand feet; the hardest third of the ascent is 
above us. Don't you remember, the only two men 
who ever made that summit were half a day in just 
passing Gibraltar ? We may find it no longer pass- 
able." 

While his look rested on the grim fortress a thin 
cloud rose like smoke from its base. It covered the 
cliff swiftly and trailed across the dome. ' ' Out of 



Ascent of Mt. Bainier 167 

nothing, without notice," and he shook his head; 
''that's what I've heard." 

He turned. Stratton Avas busy searching for a 
safe hitching-place for his horse; he never stood 
well. But Mose had stepped nearer Kingsley. The 
boy's shoulders were inclined forward, and his 
eyes, in that instant, were those of a crouching 
animal about to spring. 

"Well, Mose," he said carelessly, "your Tyec 
Sahgalee is hiding his face. I suppose you think 
we've come far enough. But we'll show him." 

He moved on with Alice up the knob, and Strat- 
ton joined them. But presently Mose stalked by, 
leading the way to the glacier. His face had the 
gray look of fear, but his lips were set in the thin 
line that gave him an older, sinister touch, the 
shadow of cruelty. 

He moved swiftly and surely. He did not once 
look back. He gave no direction or warning. 
They followed, slipping and stumbling through the 
moraine, and gaining the ragged brow of the knob 
found themselves suddenly on the brink of a mighty 
precipice. Far, far down, the infant Cowlitz 
sprang into life and struggled out between stu- 
pendous columns and needles. Locked in the oppo- 
site pinnacled cliffs shone the sheer, blue-seamed 
front of the glacier, and the throes that gave the 
river birth resounded through the gorge. 

Stratton uncoiled the spare lariat he carried, and 
taking an end, with Philip closing, and the girl be- 
tween, drew slowly along the rim. Mose, curving 
far ahead, came out on the slippery incline of the 
glacier. Finally he stopped under a great up- 
heaval of ice and, resting against a block, waited, 



168 Pathway to Western Literature 

with his back turned to them and his face lifted to 
the clouding dome. 

Behind them another cloud formed over the 
Tatoosh Mountains, driving fast to meet the ad- 
vancing column from Gibraltar; and, in a little 
while, when they had come out on the ice and made 
slow headway up the tilting surface from the 
abyss, mist lifted swiftly, flooding, giving immen- 
sity to the darkening gorge. Kingsley walked a 
trifle in advance of Alice, with Stratton abreast of 
him. Suddenly Mose's tracks, on a recent light 
snowfall which had offered foothold, swerved, and 
both men stopped. They were on the brink of a 
narrow, deep, incredibly deep, crevasse. 

Alice moved back, shivering. She looked, a mute 
question trembling on her lips, at Mose. But he 
continued to stand, oblivious, with his eyes fixed, 
expectantly, on the clouding dome. 

''See here," called Philip, "see here; next time 
you let us know. ' ' Then his glance returned to the 
crevasse. "Reminds me of a tremendous white 
watermelon," he vsaid, "with just one thin, clean 
slice gone." 

' ' Yes ? ' ' questioned Stratton, smiling. ' ' It strikes 
me differently. I thought right away of some curi- 
ous metal, with just enough taken, by some nice 
process, to shape a gigantic blade." 

"A blade, yes," said Alice, "for the hand of 
Tyee Sahgalee." 

Stratton 's eyes met hers amusedly. He won- 
dered if she was capable of superstition. "Even 
then," he said, "it is only a surface impression, 
lost the moment you look down. It's an ice-cre- 
vasse; nothing else." He turned to Kingsley, who 



'Ascent of Mt. Rainier 169 

was already studying the glacier ahead. ''Of 
course this will not delay us tomorrow, Captain, 
but it is time, now, to turn back." 

''In a moment. There's a streak on there that 
bothers me. Looks like a more serious break. I 
want to see it at closer range. Wait here; I won't 
be fifteen minutes." 

He moved back impetuously, and, giving himself 
short headway, took the crevasse in a leap. Show- 
ers of loosened ice clinked down from the rim. Most 
of the particles struck the sides that closed in 
twenty feet below, and rebounding dropped again 
and sent back faint echoes from the last level of the 
abyss, 

Stratton stood watching Philip up the glacier, 
but presently Alice drew away from the crevasse 
and turned to look back down the gorge. The sun 
no longer shone. All that brilliant vista of o])al 
peak and amethyst spur, shading to blue dis- 
tance, was curtained in closing sheets of mist. 
There a great crag loomed an instant and was gone. 
Here an uptossed pile of ice blocks flashed a sudden 
prismatic light and grew dim. Then they them- 
selves were wrapped in a noiseless, drenching cloud. 

At the same moment she was startled by Strat- 
ton 's brief note of surprise and felt behind her a 
sudden jar. She turned. Mose was hurled sprawl- 
ing at her feet, and, clutching her skirt, was up in- 
stantly, panting, with quivering nostril, eyes 
ablaze. Then, in the recoil, Stratton reeled on the 
brink of the crevasse, recovered, stumbled on break- 
ing crust, and v/ent down. 

She stood for an interminable moment, waiting, 
listening, numbed body and mind. Then she was 



170 Pathway to Western Literature 

conscious that IMose was going, and she went after 
him a few steps, calling his name. But his reced- 
ing shape drifted faster and faster, a fading shad- 
ow in the mist. She turned back, lifting her voice 
in a great cry to Philip. And she was answered 
from the aHyss. 

She dropped to her knees and crept close to look 
down. Stratton was there, where the pale, green 
walls narrowed. He rested wedge-like, caught at 
the armpits. He looked up and saw her. ''Be care- 
ful,'' he said, "I am all right." 

Instantly the executive in her arose. ' ' I have the 
lariat," she said. 

"Fasten it to the ice where Mose stood," he 
called. ''I can work along that far." 

He remembered that the rope was new and 
strong, one he himself had selected as a reserve in 
picketing his own spirited horse. The question 
was whether the ice would take his weight. He 
worked carefully, laboriously, along by shoulder 
and elbow, his body swinging from the waist, start- 
ing a rain of ice at every move. At last, where the 
wall crumbled, leaving a ledge, he was able to draw 
himself to his knees. He cut foothold with his 
knife, and other niches higher up for his hands, 
and pulled himself erect on the slippery shelf. 

Beyond him the chasm widened between sheer 
walls, and it Avas in this shaft that the lowered 
rope hung. It swung for a moment, like a failing 
pendulum, and each oscillation, though he stood 
alert, missed his reach a little more. The girl, peer- 
ing into the abyss, understood, and again disap- 
peared. The line was drawn up, and presently it 
dropped almost at his shoulder. He caught the 



Ascent of Mt. Fainier 171 

end and, looking up, met her eyes over the rim. 
"That's better," he said. 

"AVait— one moment," she called and was gone 
once more. She did not return this time, but her 
voice came to him, "Noav, now, all ready." 

The lariat tightened. It creaked, ground on the 
edge of the chasm; ice chips fell ceaselessly. He 
swung out. He was a big fellow, heavy. Would the 
support hold ? Would Mose, his fury cooled, be neu- 
tral? Why, yes, surely the boy was even setting 
himself to ease the strain. He could feel an un- 
mistakable give and pull above on the rope, as he 
climbed, hand over hand. 

He gained the top. He reached a palm around a 
slight pinnacle, for a final grasp on the line, and 
pulled himself slowly out on the surface of the 
glacier. He was a strong man physically, a man 
of steady nerve, one accustomed to take risks with 
Nature, as in those times a man of the Northwest 
must, but what he saw in that brief pause .sent a 
shiver through him. He closed his eyes like one 
brought suddenly into intense light. 

The rope was fastened, as he had directed, to a 
thick column in the upheaval, but it stretched di- 
agonally to the projection on the brink of the cre- 
vasse. And it was Alice, not Mose, Avho steadied 
it, throwing her weight on it, twisting it on her 
hands, digging her heels in a shallow cleft, strain- 
ing back to ease the pressure on the knob. Sup- 
pose the support had given way; suppose he had 
dragged her— this brave girl, all life, charm, love- 
liness—down to destruction. It was horrible to 
think of. Horrible ! 

He pulled himself together and got to his feet. 



172 Pathivay to Westei^n Literature 

He did not speak to her then ; he could not . But 
he put his hand to his mouth and lifted his voice 
in a great hail. Kingsley responded, but his 
"Hello," came faintly, through billows of mist. 
The calls were repeated. ' ' We cannot wait, ' ' Strat- 
ton said. ''We must follow that rascal's tracks 
down, while they last, to the horses. ' ' 

''What made Mose do it?" she asked. "Oh, 
what made him ? ' ' 

"Why, just Indian, I suppose; or say he was an 
instrument, self-appointed, of his Tyee Sahgalee. 
But he shall be punished." 

They made the rocky knob and finally, out of ob- 
scurity, she caught Colonel's familiar neigh. The 
call shrilled again, inquiring, peremptory. But 
when they came to the end of the moraine, where 
they had left the horses, they found them gone. 

The neigh was repeated once more, coming back 
faintly, from far across the snowfield. "Mr. Strat- 
ton," she cried, "what has happened? Where is 
Mose going?" 

"Over the mountains to the Palouse plains, I 
haven't a doubt," and the blade flashed again in 
his eyes. "It's the first thing a half-breed does, 
and they always drive stolen horses over there; it 
is impossible to find them among those big, feeding 
bands of the Yakimas. He will stampede the rest 
in the valley, and Yelm Jim will probably meet 
him somewhere below the springs and help him take 
them through the Pass." 

She stood for a moment with her head high, lips 
set, looking with storming eyes into the mist. Then, 
"There isn't any time to waste," she said. "We 



Ascent of Mt. Rainier 173 

must take him this side of the springs.'* And she 
began to trail the horses on across the snow. 

It was twilight and they were descending the 
final pitch into the park when Kingsley at last 
overtook them. The camp-fire, which Samantha had 
kindled with infinite difficulty on the plateau, 
burned like a beacon in the gloom. ''You should 
have seen that second crevasse, ' ' he said. ' ' It was 
tremendous. No way over, no way around; I 
tramped both directions to see. We've simply got 
to choose another route to-morrow. But what be- 
came of the horses?" 

''Mose took them." It was Alice who answered. 
''He took Colonel. But I shall find him. I've got 
to find him if I have to walk every step of the way 
over the mountains and through the Palouse. You 
know how much Paul thinks of his horse, Philip. 
Oh, I can never face him; I can never tell him — 
the truth." 

Camp was broken hurriedly, each of the men tak- 
ing the necessary shoulder pack, and leaving the 
bulk of the outfit to be sent for when they should 
find horses. They pushed quickly down from the 
snow, which became rain in the woods. And Alice 
led the way. She studied the trail continually, sep- 
arating the tracks of the ponies, where they struck 
the path down the valley, from the deeper, water- 
filled impressions of the American horses. She set 
Stratton a pace, and kept it almost to the ford of 
the Paradise. Then suddenly she stopped an in- 
stant, listening, and ran on along the bank to an old 
log foot-crossing. There on the end of the bridge, 
sheltered by a trailing cedar, were her bridle and 



174 Pathway to Western Literature 

saddle, and picketed on a grassy knoll under some 
alders she saw the black. 

"Oh," she said, and took his head in her arms, 
*'you beauty! You heart's desire! But I knew — 
I Imew Mose couldn't take you; I knew it." 

Stratton stood for a moment watching her. 
' ' So, '" ' he said, ' ' so the rascal was white enough to 
leave your horse. He brought him this far with 
the others to avoid pursuit last night." 

Alice looked off a thoughtful moment, through 
the dripping trees. "I knew his white conscience 
would get to upbraiding him," she said. ''But I 
can't help feeling glad he chose Coloned for the 
compromise. ' ' 

Stratton laughed. "I hope it will upbraid him 
some more, ' ' he said, ' ' and induce him to leave my 
horse. ' ' 

Suddenly he stopped, and the black also halted, 
tossing his mane, and shrilling his ready, challeng- 
ing neigh. There, moving out of the stream, up the 
opposite bank, was a riderless horse. It was Sir 
Donald. 

Stratton whistled a soft, imperative note. The 
chestnut wheeled. The man repeated the call, and 
the horse trotted gently back into the channel. He 
halted once more on a gravel bar, his head high, 
ears alert, then came on across to his master. 

''So," said Stratton, slowly. "So, Donald, you 
showed the rascal your little trick. You see. Miss 
Hunter, it was as I thought. Mose chose the best 
horse. But he never mounted him. In his hurry 
he laid his hand on the bit, and Sir Donald never 
allows that ; he was trained that way. ' ' 

With this he vaulted into the saddle and led the 



Ascent of Bit. Rainier 175 

way over from bar to bar. He returned bringing 
the black, and Avhile the others made the crossing- 
Alice waited, seating herself on a rock in the sun, 
and lifting her face to the upper canon. Presently 
the clouds parted like a rent veil on the mountain. 
Once more Gibraltar menaced and the summit 
shone in splendor. 

*' After all," she said, when Stratton rejoined 
her, ' ' I can 't blame Mose for that belief. I felt it 
myself, for a moment, there on the glacier. It was 
the steps of the Great White Throne. You can't 
understand. ' ' 

He bent and offered his hand to mount her on 
her horse, her sister having kept the black, and she 
sprang lightly up. '^Then," she said, while he ad- 
justed the stirrup, ''you see no excuse for Mose?" 

''No," and his face hardened. "No, I only see 
the half-breed threw me into that crevasse. He 
took me off guard. And he left us miles from any- 
where, on that unknown mountain, in a storm, 
without horses. His motives do not count." 

Sir Donald started, trailing after the black. The 
little company filed slowly dow^n to the mineral 
springs. And there, in the open, unpicketed, ready 
for the long trail, they found the other horses 
quietly feeding in company with Ginger and the 
pack animals. 

"While Samantha made a fire and prepared the 
coffee the two men caught and picketed the herd, 
reserving the few horses necessary for a hurried 
trip back to the plateau for the outfit. And it was 
Alice, who, going for a drink from her favorite 
well, discovered Mose. He was lying semi-conscious 
on the wet earth, and over his black brows, branded 



176 Pathway to Western Literature 

with the tip of an iron shoe, Sir Donald had set 
his mark. 

The teacher dipped her handkerchief in the basin 
and bathed the hurt. She went to ask Stratton's 
flask of him, and mixed the boy a draught, and, a 
little later, when the young man followed her to the 
spring, he found Mose able to recognize him. He 
stood silent a moment watching him with hard eyes, 
and the boy met the look steadily ; his muscles stif- 
fened as they had that day at school, when he 
braced himself to Laramie's blow. Stratton's lip 
curled in disgust. After all, he could not punish 
the fellow, down, helpless like that. He swung on 
his heel. 

''Wait," said Alice, "it was just as you thought. 
The scheme to steal the horses was Yelm Jim's; he 
was to meet him at the branch to the Pass and help 
drive them over the mountains to the Palouse 
plains. But he meant to leave Colonel; he only 
brought him as far as the Paradise to avoid being 
overtaken. And that trouble at the crevasse was 
unpremediated. He was terribly frightened by the 
gathering storm. He believed it was a judgment 
coming on us all, and he took the opportunity to — 
use you — for a propitiation. Afterwards, in the 
night, he crept back up the valley far enough to 
see the camp-fire, and you, safe — and keeping watch 
on the plateau. ' ' 

There was another brief silence. Stratton stood, 
still hard, uncompromising, frowning down at the 
boy. "Be merciful," she said. "Think; you were 
not hurt; you have Sir Donald, unharmed. Be 
generous. Some time — who knows ? — you yourself 
may ask it." 



'Ascent of Mt, Rainier 177 

''No," he flashed. ''No. I live my life ; I do as I 
please. I ask nothing of anyone. And in the end 
— I take Avhat I deserve. That is my creed. The 
boy must be punished." 

He turned away, but she followed. In her earn- 
estness she laid her hand on his sleeve. "He has 
been punished," she said. "Look. He will carry 
Sir Donald's brand all his life. He's just a boy, 
Mr. Stratton. He left home angry, outraged, and 
Yelm Jim took the opportunity to make him his 
tool. But he has good in him, I know. Remember, 
too, he saved my life. And I need him; I'll be re- 
sponsible for him. ' ' 

Her eyes were raised to Stratton eloquent with 
appeal ; the hand on his arm trembled. ' ' You need 
him ; he saved your life. ' ' He paused and the hard- 
ness went out of his face. ' ' And you saved mine — 
you saved mine; I do not forget that. And per- 
haps you were right just now; sometimes I may 
ask that mercy. I may ask it of — you. ' ' 

Her hand fell from his sleeve ; she drew back a 
step. "I will be ready," she said slowly, "if you 
are good to Mose." She looked back at the boy. 
He was watching her. His lip quivered and his 
eyes filled with unaccustomed tears. "I'll be re- 
sponsible for him," she repeated. "I'm going to 
make him white."— From "The Heart of the Red 
Firs.'' 



178 Pathway to Western Literature 

TO THE PIONEERS THAT REMAIN 

By a. J. Waterhouse 

I HAVE no word to speak their praise, 
Theirs was the deed ; the guerdon ours, 
The w^ilderness and weary days 

Were theirs alone ; for us the flowers. 
They sowed the seed that we might reap ; 

Ours is the fruitage of their years. 
And now, behold, they drop to sleep. 
And we have naught for them save tears. 

The flag, whose luster none may mar, 

The brightest thing that loves the air, 
See you our California's star 

Amidst the rest ? They set it there. 
What wonder that it droops to-day, 

The while another folds his hands. 
And silent, floats away, away, 

From golden sands to golden sands. 

So they go out. A little while 

And none shall answer to the call. 
Still shall the great world weep or smile, 

But they shall be all silent — all. 
Still shall the life tides ebb and flow 

And mark the rhythm of the years. 
And they no more shall heed or know. 

Forgotten cares and hopes and fears. 



The Love Master 179 

When they are gone ; when o 'er one 's clay 

Our tears of long farewell shall fall, 
We'll pay our tribute then and say: 

''He was the last, the last of all. 
Ah, they were stalwart men," we'll sigh, 

"The future's promise on each brow." 
So shall we whisper then, but I — 

I pay that tribute here and now. 

— From ' ' Some Homely Little Songs. ' ' 



THE LOVE MASTER 

By Jack London 

WHEEDON SCOTT had set himself to the task 
of redeeming White Pang — or rather, of 
redeeming mankind from the wrong it had done 
White Fang. It was a matter of principle and 
conscience. He felt that the ill done White Fang 
was a debt incurred by man and that it must be 
paid. So he went out of his way to be especially 
kind to the Fighting Wolf. Each day he made it 
a point to pet and caress White Fang, and to do it 
at length. 

At first suspicious and hostile. White Fang grew 
to like this petting. But there was one thing that 
he never outgrew — his growling. Growl he would, 
from the moment the petting began till it ended. 
But it was a growl with a new note in it. A strang- 
er could not hear this note, and to such a stranger 
the growling of White Fang was an exhibition of 
primordial savagery, nerve-racking and blood-curd- 



[ Copyright by The Macmillan Company, 1906.] 



180 Pathway to Western Literature 

ling. But White Fang's throat had become harsh- 
fibred from the making of ferocious sounds through 
the many years since his first little rasp of anger 
in the lair of his cubhood, and he could not soften 
the sounds of his throat now to express the gentle- 
ness he felt. Nevertheless, Wheedon Scott's ear 
and sympathy were fine enough to catch the new 
note all but drowned in the fierceness — the note 
that was the faintest hint of a croon of content and 
that none but he could hear. 

As the days went by, the evolution of like into 
love was accelerated. AVhite Fang himself began 
to grow aware of it, though in his consciousness he 
knew not what love was. It manifested itself to 
him as a void in his being- — a hungry, aching, 
yearning void that clamored to be filled. It was a 
pain and an unrest; and it received easement only 
by the touch of the new god's presence. At such 
times love was joy to him — a wild, keen-thrilling 
satisfaction. But when away from his god, the 
pain and the unrest returned; the void in him 
sprung up and pressed against him with its empti- 
ness, and the hunger gnawed and gnawed unceas- 
ingly. 

White Fang was in the process of finding him- 
self. In spite of the maturity of his years and of 
the savage rigidity of the mould that had formed 
him, his nature was undergoing an expansion. 
There was a burgeoning within him of strange 
feelings and unwonted impulses. His old code of 
conduct was changing. In the past he had liked 
comfort and surcease from pain, disliked discom- 
fort and pain, and he had adjusted his actions ac- 
cordingly. But now it was different. Because of 



The Love blaster 181 

this new feeling within him, he ofttimes elected 
pain and discomfort for the sake of his god. Thus, 
in the early morning, instead of roaming and forag- 
ing, or lying in a sheltered nook, he would wait for 
hours on the cheerless cabin-stoop for a sight of his 
god^s face. At night when the god returned home. 
White Fang would leave the warm sleeping place 
he had burrowed in the snow in order to receive 
the friendly snap of the fingers and friendly word 
of greeting. Meat, even meat itself, he would fore- 
go to be with his god, to receive a caress from him 
or to accompany him down into the town. 

Like had been replaced by love. And love was 
the plummet dropped down into the deeps of him 
where like had never gone. And, responsive, out 
of his deeps had come the new thing — love. That 
which was given unto him did he return. This was 
a god indeed, a love-god, a warm and radiant god, 
in whose light White Fang's nature expanded as a 
flower expands under the sun. 

But White Fang was not demonstrative. He was 
too old, too firmly moulded, to become adept at ex- 
pressing himself in new ways. He was too self- 
possessed, too strongly poised in his own isolation. 
Too long had he cultivated reticence, aloofness, and 
moroseness. He had never barked in his life, and 
he could not now learn to bark a welcome when his 
god approached. He was never in the way, never 
extravagant nor foolish in the expression of his 
love. He never ran to meet his god. He waited at 
a distance ; but he always waited, was always there. 
His love partook of the nature of worship, dumb, 
inarticulate, a silent adoration. Only by the steady 
regard of his eyes did he express his love, and by 
13 



182 Pathway to Wester^i Literature 

the unceasing following with his eyes of his god's 
every movement. Also, at times, when his god 
looked at him and spoke to him, he ]5etrayed an 
awkward self-consciousness, caused by the struggle 
of his love and his physical inability to express it. 

He learned to adjust himself in many ways to 
his new mode of life. It was borne in upon him 
that he must let his master's dogs alone. Yet his 
dominant nature asserted itself, and he had first to 
thrash them into an acknowledgment of his su- 
periority and leadership. This accomplished, he 
had little trouble with them. They gave trail to 
him when he came and went or walked among them, 
and when he asserted his will they obeyed. 

In the same way, he came to tolerate Matt — as a 
possession of his master. His master rarely fed 
him. Matt did that ; it was his business ; yet White 
Fang divined that it was his master's food he ate 
and that it was his master who thus fed him vicari- 
ously. Matt it was who tried to put him into the 
harness and make him haul sled with the other 
dogs, but Matt failed. It was not until Wheedon 
Scott put the harness on White Fang and worked 
him, that he understood. He took it as his master's 
will that Matt should drive him, and work him just 
as he drove and worked his master's other dogs. 

Different from the Mackenzie toboggans were the 
Klondike sleds with runners under them, and dif- 
ferent was the method of driving the dogs. There 
was no fan-formation of the team. And here, in 
the Klondike, the leader was indeed the leader. 
The wisest as well as the strongest dog was the 
leader, and the team obeyed him and feared him. 
That AVhite Fang should quickly gain the post was 



The Love Master 183 

inevitable. He could not be satisfied with less, as 
Matt learned after much trouble and inconvenience. 
White Fang picked out the post for himself, and 
Matt backed his judgment with strong language 
after the experiment had been tried. But, though 
he worked in the sled in the day, White Fang did 
not forego the guarding of his master's property 
in the night. Thus he was on duty all the time, 
ever vigilant and faithful, the most valuable of all 
the dogs. 

"Makin' free to spit out what's in me," Matt 
said one day, ''I beg to state that you was a wise 
guy, all right, when you paid the price you did for 
that dog. You clean swindled Beauty Smith on 
top of pushin' his face in with your fist." 

A recrudescence of anger glinted in Wheedon 
Scott's gray eyes, and he muttered savagely, "The 
beast!" 

In the late spring a great trouble came to A¥hite 
Fang. Without warning the love-master disap- 
peared. There had been warning, but White Fang 
was unversed in such things and did not under- 
stand the packing of a grip. He remembered after- 
ward that the packing had preceded the master's 
disappearance ; but at the time he suspected noth- 
ing. That night he waited for his master to return. 
At midnight the chill winds that blew drove him to 
shelter at the rear of the cabin. There he drowsed, 
only half asleep, his ears keyed for the first sound 
of the familiar step. But, at two in the morning, 
his anxiety drove him out to the cold front stoop, 
where he crouched and waited. 

But no master came. In the morning the door 
opened and Matt stepped outside. White Fang 



184 Path way to Western Literature 

gazed at him wistfully. There was no common 
speech by which he might learn what he wanted to 
know. The days came and went, but never the 
master. White Fang, who had never known sick- 
ness in his life, became sick. He became so sick 
that Matt was obliged to bring him inside the cabin. 
Also, in writing to his employer, Matt devoted a 
postscript to White Fang. 

Wheedon Scott reading the letter, down in Circle 
City, came upon the following: 

''That wolf won't work. Won't eat. Ain't got 
no spunk left. All the dogs is licking him. Wants 
to know what has become of you, and I don 't know 
how to tell him. Mebbe he is going to die. ' ' 

It was as Matt had said. White Fang had ceased 
eating; lost heart, and allowed every dog of the 
team to thrash him. In the cabin he lay on the 
floor near the stove, without interest in food, in 
Matt, nor in life. Matt might talk gently to him, 
might swear at him, it was all the same ; he never 
did more than turn his dull eyes upon the man, 
then drop his head back to its customary position 
on his forepaws. 

And then, one night, Matt, reading to himself 
with moving lips and mumbled sounds, was startled 
by a low whine from White Fang. He had got up- 
on his feet, his ears cocked toward the door, and 
he was listening intently. A moment later. Matt 
heard a footstep. The door opened, and Wheedon 
Scott stepped in. The two men shook hands. Then 
Scott looked around the room. 

''Where's the wolf?" he asked. 

Then he discovered him standing where he had 
been lying, near the stove. He had not rushed fpr- 



The Love Master 185 

ward after the manner of other dogs. He stood 
watching and waiting. 

''Holy smoke!" Matt exclaimed. ''Look at him 
wag his tail ! ' ' 

Wheedon Scott strode half across the room toward 
him, at the same time calling him. White Fang 
came to him, not with a great bound, yet quickly. 
He was awkward from self -consciousness, but as he 
drew near his eyes took on a strange expression. 
Something, an incommunicable vastness of feeling, 
rose up into his eyes and shone forth. 

"He never looked at me that way all the time 
you was gone," Matt commented. 

Wheedon Scott did not hear. He was squatting 
down on his heels, face to face with White Fang, 
and petting him — rubbing at the roots of his ears, 
making long, caressing strokes down the neck to 
the shoulders, tapping the spine gently with the 
balls of his fingers. And White Fang was growl- 
ing responsively, the crooning note of the growl 
more pronounced than ever. 

But that was not all. What of his joy, the great 
love in him, ever surging and struggling to express 
itself, succeeded in finding a new mode of expres- 
sion. He suddenly thrust his head forward and 
nudged his way in between his master's arm and 
body. And here, confined, hidden from view, all ex- 
cept his ears, no longer growling, he continued to 
nudge and snuggle. 

The two men looked at each other. Scott's eyes 
Y^YQ shining. 

' ' Gosh ! ' ' said Matt in an awe-stricken voice. 

A moment later, when he had recovered himself, 



186 Path way to Western Literature 

he said, "I always insisted that Avolf was a dog. 
Look at 'm!" 

With the return of the love-master, White 
Pang's recovery was rapid. Two nights and a day 
he spent in the cabin. Then he sallied forth. The 
sled-dogs had forgotten his prowess. They remem- 
bered only the latest, which was his sickness and 
weakness. At the sight of him as he came out of 
the cabin, they sprang upon him. 

' ' Talk about your rough houses, ' ' Matt mur- 
mured gleefully, standing in the doorway and look- 
ing on. 

White Fang did not need any encouragement. 
The return of the love-master was enough. Life 
was flowing through him again, splendid and in- 
domitable. He fought from sheer joy, finding it 
an expression of much that he felt and that other- 
wise was without speech. There could be but one 
ending. The team dispersed in ignominious defeat, 
and it was not until after dark that the dogs came 
sneaking back, one by one, by meekness and humil- 
ity signifying their fealty to White Fang. 

Having learned to snuggle. White Fang was 
guilty of it often. It was the final word. He could 
not go beyond it. The one thing of which he had 
always been particularly jealous was his head. He 
had always disliked to have it touched. It was the 
wild in him, the fear of hurt and of the trap, that 
had given rise to the panicky impulses to avoid 
contacts. It was the mandate of his instinct that 
his head must be free. And now, with the love- 
master, his snuggling was the deliBerate act of pu^ 
ting himself into a position of hopeless helpless- 
ness. It was an expression of perfect confidence. 



The Love blaster 187 

of absolute self -surrender, as though he said : ' ' I 
put myself into thy hands. Work thou thy will 
with me." 

One night, not long after the return, Scott and 
Matt sat at a game of cribbage preliminary to go- 
ing to bed. '' Fifteen- two, fifteen-four an' a pair 
makes six, ' ' Matt was pegging up, when there was 
an outcry and sound of snarling without. They 
looked at each other as they started to rise to their 
feet. 

''The wolf's nailed somebody," Matt said. 

A wild scream of fear and anguish hastened 
them. 

"Bring a light !" Scott shouted, as he sprang out- 
side. Matt followed with the lamp, and by its light 
they saw a man lying on his back in the snow. His 
arms were folded, one above the other, across his 
face and throat. Thus he was trying to shield 
himself from White Fang's teeth. And there was 
need for it. White Fang was in a rage, wickedly 
making his attack on the most vulnerable spot. 
From shoulder to wrist of the crossed arms, the 
coat sleeve, blue flannel shirt and undershirt were 
ripped in rags, while the arms themselves were ter- 
ribly slashed and streaming blood. 

All this the two men saw in the first instant. 
The next instant Wheedon Scott had White Fang 
by the throat and was dragging him clear. White 
Fang struggled and snarled, but made no attempt 
to bite, while he quickly quieted down at a sharp 
word from his master. 

Matt helped the man to his feet. As he arose he 
lowered his crossed arms, exposing the bestial face 
of Beauty Smith. The dog-musher let go of him 



188 Pathway to Western Literature 

precipitately, with action similar to that of a man 
who had picked up live fire. Beauty Smith blinked 
in the lamplight and looked about him. He caught 
sight of White Fang and terror rushed into his 
face. 

At the same moment Matt noticed two objects 
lying in the snow. He held the lamp close to them, 
indicating them with his toe for his employer's 
benefit — a steel dog chain and a stout club. 

Wheedon Scott saw and nodded. Not a word was 
spoken. The dog-musher laid his hand on Beauty 
Smith's shoulder and faced him to the right about. 
No word needed to be spoken. Beauty Smith 
started. 

In the meantime the love-master was patting 
AVhite Fang and talking to him. 

''Tried to steal you, eh? And you wouldn't 
have it ! Well, well he made a mistake, didn't he ?'* 

''Must 'a thought he had hold of seventeen 
devils," the dog-musher sniggered. 

White Fang, still wrought up and bristling, 
growled and growled, the hair slowly lying down, 
the crooning note remote and dim, but growing in 
his throat.— From "White Fang.'' 



FATHEE SALVIERDEERA'S FAITH 

By Helen Hunt Jackson 

IT was longer than the Seiiora had thought it 
would be before Father Salvierderra arrived. 
The old man had grown feeble during the year that 
she had not seen him, and it was a very short day's 
journey that he could make now without too great 



Father Salvierderra^s Faith 189 

fatigue. It was not only his body that had failed. 
He had lost heart ; and the miles which would have 
been nothing to him had he walked in the compan- 
ionship of hopeful and happy thoughts stretched 
out wearily as he brooded over sad memories and 
still sadder anticipations — the down-fall of the 
Missions, the loss of their fair estate, and the grow- 
ing power of the ungodly in the land. The final 
decision of the United States Government in re- 
gard to the Mission lands had been a severe blow 
to him. He had devoutly believed that ultimate 
restoration of these great estates to the church was 
inevitable. In the long vigils which he always kept 
when at home at the Franciscan Monastery in 
Santa Barbara, kneeling on the stone pavement in 
the church, and praying ceaselessly from midnight 
till dawn, he had often had visions vouchsafed him 
of a new dispensation, in which the Mission estab- 
lishments should be reinstated in all their old 
splendor and prosperity, and their Indian converts 
again numbered by tens of thousands. 

Long after every one knew that this was impos- 
sible, he would narrate these visions with the faith 
of an old Bible seer, and declare that they must 
come true and that it was a sin to despond. But 
as year after year he journeyed up and down the 
country, seeing, at Mission after Mission, the build- 
ings crumbled into ruin, the lands all taken, sold, 
resold, and settled by greedy speculators, the In- 
dian converts disappearing, driven back to their 
original wildernesses, the last trace of the noble 
work of his order being rapidly swept away, his 
courage faltered, his faith died out. Changes in 
the manners and customs of his order itself, also, 



190 Pathway to Western Literature 

were giving him deep pain. He was a Franciscan 
of the same type as Francis of Assisi. To wear a 
shoe in place of a sandal, to take money in a purse 
for a journey, above all to lay aside the gray gown 
and cowl for any sort of secular garment, seemed 
to him wicked. To own comfortable clothes while 
there were others suffering for want of them — and 
there were always such — seemed to him a sin for 
which one might, not undeservedly, be smitten with 
sudden and terrible punishment. In vain the 
Brothers again and again supplied him with a 
warm cloak ; he gave it away to the first beggar he 
met; and as for food, the refactory would have 
been bare, and the whole brotherhood starving, if 
supplies had not been carefully hidden and locked, 
so that Father Salvierderra could not give them 
away. He was fast becoming that most tragic yet 
often sublime sight, a man who has survived, not 
only his own time, Hut the ideas and ideals of it. 
Earth holds no sharper loneliness ; the bitterness of 
exile, the anguish of friendlessness, at their utmost, 
are in it ; and yet it is so much greater than they 
that even they seem small part of it. 

It was with thoughts such as these that Father 
Salvierderra drew near the home of the Seiiora 
Moreno late in the afternoon of one of those mid- 
summer days of which Southern California has so 
many in spring. The almonds had bloomed and 
the blossoms had fallen ; the apricots also, and the 
peaches and pears; on all the orchards of these 
fruits had come a filmy tint of green, so light it 
was hardly a shadow on the gray. The willows 
were vivid light green, and the orange groves dark 
and glossy like laurel. The billowy hills on either 



Father Salvierderra^s Faith 191 

side the valley were covered with verdure and bloom 
— myriads of low blossoming plants, so close to the 
earth that their tints lapped and over-lapped on 
each other, and on the green of the grass, as feath- 
ers in fine plumage overlap each and blend into 
a changeful color. 

The countless curves, hollows, and crests of the 
coast-hills in Southern California heighten these 
chameleon effects of the spring verdure; they are 
like nothing in nature except the glitter of a bril- 
liant lizard in the sun or the irridescent sheen of a 
peacock's neck. 

Father Salvierderra paused many times to gaze 
at the beautiful picture. Flowers were always dear 
to the Franciscans. Saint Francis himself permit- 
ted all decorations which could be made of flowers. 
He classed them with his brothers and sisters, the 
sun, moon and stars — all members of the sacred 
choir praising god. 

It was melancholy to see how, after each one of 
these pauses, each fresh drinking in of the beauty 
of the landscape and the balmy air, the old man re- 
sumed his slow pace, with a long sigh and his eyes 
cast down. The fairer this beautiful land, the sad- 
der to know it lost to the church — alien hands reap- 
ing its fulness, establishing new customs, new laws. 
All the way down the coast from Santa Barbara 
he had seen, at every stopping place, new tokens of 
the settling up of the country — farms opening, 
towns growing; the Americans pouring in, at all 
points, to reap the advantages of their new posses- 
sions. It was this which had made his journey 
heavy-hearted, and made him feel, in approaching 
the Seiiora 's, as if he were coming to one of the last 



192 Pathway to Western Literature 

sure strongholds of the Catholic faith left in the 
country. 

AVhen he was within two miles of the house he 
struck off from the highway into a narrow path 
that he recollected led by a short cut through the 
hills, and saved nearly a third of the distance. It 
was more than a year since he had trod this path, 
and as he found it growing fainter and fainter, and 
more and more overgrown with the wild mustard, 
he said to himself, ^ ' I think no one can have passed 
through here this year.'' 

As he proceeded he found the mustard thicker 
and thicker. The wild mustard in Southern Cali- 
fornia is like that spoken of in the New Testament, 
in the branches of which the birds of the air may 
rest. Coming up out of the earth, so slender a stem 
that dozens can find a starting point in an inch, it 
darts up, a slender straight shoot, five, ten, twenty 
feet, with hundreds of fine, feathery branches lock- 
ing and interlocking with all the other hundreds 
around it, till it is an inextricable network, like lace. 
Then it brusts into bloom still finer, more feathery 
and lace-like. The stems are so infinitesimally 
small, and of so dark a green, that at a short dis- 
tance they do not show, and the cloud of blossoms 
seem floating in the air ; at times it looks like golden 
dust with a clear blue sky behind it ; as it is often 
seen, it looks like a golden snowstorm. The plant 
is a tyrant and a nuisance — the enemy of the farm- 
er; it takes riotous possession of a whole field in a 
season ; once in, never out ; for one plant this year, 
a million next ; but it is impossible to wish that the 
land were freed from it. Its gold is as distinct a 
value to the eye as the nugget gold is in the pocket. 



Father Balvierderra's Faith 193 

Father Salvierderra soon found himself in a 
veritable thicket of these delicate branches, high 
above his head, and so interlaced that he could 
make headway only by slowly and patiently disen- 
tangling them, as one would disentangle a skein of 
silk. It was a fantastic sort of dilemma, and not 
unpleasing. Except that the Father was in haste 
to reach his journey's end, he would have enjoyed 
threading his way through the golden meshes. Sud- 
denly he heard faint notes of singing. He paused, 
listened. It was the voice of a woman. It was 
slowly drawing nearer, apparently from the direc- 
tion in Avhich he was going. At intervals it ceased 
abruptly, then began again, as if by a sudden but 
brief interruption, like that made by question and 
answer. Then, peering ahead through the mus- 
tard blossoms, he saw them waving and bending, 
and heard sounds as if they were being broken. 
Evidently some one entering on the path from the 
opposite end had been caught in the fragrant 
thicket as he w^as. The notes grew clearer, though 
still low and sweet as the twilight notes of the 
thrush; the mustard branches waved more and 
more violently; light steps were now to be heard. 
Father Salvierderra stood still as one in a dream, 
his eyes straining forward into the golden mist of 
blossoms. 

*'Ramona!*' exclaimed the Father, his thin 
cheeks flushing with pleasure. * ' The blessed child. ' ' 
And as he spoke, her face came in sight set in a 
swaying frame of the branches, as she parted them 
lightly to right and left with her hands, and half 
crept, half danced through the loophole thus made. 
Ramona's beauty was of the sort to be best en- 



194 Pathway to Western Literature 

hanced Hy the waving gold which now framed her 
face. She had just enough of olive tint in her 
complexion to under-lie and enrich it without mak- 
ing it swarthy. Her hair was like her Indian 
mother's, heavy and black, but her eyes were like 
her father's, steel blue. Only those who came very 
near to Ramona knew, however, that her eyes were 
blue, for the heavy, black eyebrows and long, black 
lashes so shaded and shadowed them that they 
looked black as night. At the same instant that 
Father Salvierderra first caught sight of her face 
Ramona also saw him, and crying out joyfully, 
**Ah, Father, I knew you would come by this path, 
and something told me you were near ! ' ' she sprang 
forward, and sank on her knees before him, bow- 
ing her head for his blessing. In silence he laid his 
hand on her brow. It would not have been easy 
for him to speak to her at that first moment. She 
had looked to the devout old monk, as she sprang 
through the cloud of golden flowers, the sun falling 
on her bared head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes 
shining, more like an apparition of an angle or 
saint than like the flesh-and-blood maiden whom 
he had carried in his arms when she was a babe. — 
From *' Ramona." 



Two Bits' ^ 195 



^ ' TWO BITS ^' 

By Sharlott M. Hall 

WHERE the shimmering sands of the desert 
beat 
In waves to the foothills' rugged line, 
And cat-claw and cactus and brown mesquite 

Elbow the cedar and mountain pine ; 
Under the dip of a wind-swept hill, 

Like a little gray hawk Ft. Whipple clung; 
The fort was a pen of peeled pine logs. 
And forty troopers the army strong. 

At the very gates when the darkness fell, 

Prowling Mohave and Yavapai 
Signaled with shrill coyote yell, 

Or mocked the night owl's piercing cry; 
Till once when the guard turned shuddering 

For a trace in the east of the welcome dawn, 
Spent, wounded, a courier reeled to his feet — 

' ' Apaches — rising — ^Wingate — warn ! ' ' 

''And half the troop at the Date Creek Camp !" 

The captain muttered, ' ' Those devils heard ! ' ' 
White-lipped he called for a volunteer 

To ride Two Bits and carry the word : 
*' Alone — it's a game of hide and seek; 

One man may win where ten would fail ; ' ' 
Himself the saddle and cinches set 

And headed Two Bits for the Verde trail. 



196 Patlnvay to Western Literature 

Two Bits ! How his still eyes woke to the chase ! 

The bravest soul of them all was he ; 
Hero of many a hard-won race, 

With a hundred scars for his pedigree ; 
Wary of ambush and keen of trail, 

Old in wisdom of march and fray, 
And the grizzled veteran seemed to know 

The lives that hung on his hoofs that day. 

^ ' A week — God speed you and make it less ! 

Ride by night from the river on ; " 
Caps were swung in a silent cheer, 

A quick salute and the word was gone 
Sunrise, threading the Point of Rocks ; 

Dusk in the canons dark and grim — 
Where, coiled like a flung thread 'round the cliffs. 

The trail crawls up to the frowning Rim. 

A pebble turned, a spark out-struck 

From steel-shod hoof on the treacherous flint — 
Ears wait, eyes strain, in the rocks above, 

For the faintest whisper, the farthest glint; 
But shod with silence and robed with night 

They pass untracked, and mile by mile 
The hills divide for the flying fleet. 

And the stars lean low to guide the while. 

Never a plumed quail hid her nest 

AAHth the stealthiest care a mother may, 

As crouched at dawn in the chaparral 

These two whom a heart beat might betray; 



''Two Bits" 197 

So hiding and riding night by night; 

Four days and the end of the riding near ; 
The fort just hid in the distant hills — 

But hist ! A whisper, a breath of fear ! 

They wheel and turn — too late ! Ping ! Ping ! 

From their very feet a fiery jet ; 
A lurch, a plunge, and the brave old horse 

Leaped out with his broad breast torn and wet. 
Ping ! Thud ! on his neck the rider swayed ; 

(Ten thousand deaths if he reeled and fell!) 
Behind, exultant, the painted horde 

Swooped down like a skirmish line from Hell. 

Not yet ! Not yet ! Those ringing hoofs 

Have scarred their triumph on many a course ; 
And the desperate, blood-trailed chase swept on, 

Apache sinews 'gainst wounded horse ; 
Hour crowding hour till the yells died back. 

Till the pat of the moccasined feet was gone. 
And dumb to heeding of foe or fear 

The rider dropped but the horse kept on. 

Stiff and stumbling and spent and sore, 

Plodding the rough miles doggedly. 
Till the daybreak bugles of Wingate rang 

And a faint neigh answered the reveille ; 
Wide swung the gate ; a wounded horse — 

Red-dabbled pouches and riding gear — 
A shout, a hurry, a quick-flung word — 

And Boots and Saddles rang sharp and clear. 



14 



198 Pathway to Western Literature 

Like a stern commander the old horse turned 

As the troop filed out, and straight at the head 
He guided them back on that weary trail 

Till he fell by his fallen rider, dead ; 
But the man and the message saved ! and he 

Whose brave heart carried the double load — 
With his last trust kept and his last race won 

They buried him there on the Wingate road. 

— From ''Out West Magazine." 

["Two Bits," an old racer, was, in his day, the fastest 
and the longest-winded horse in Arizona. He belonged at 
the time to Lieut. Chas. Curtis (now Capt. Curtis, at the 
University of Wisconsin), who built the first stockade on 
the present site of Ft. Whipple, A. T. The episode is 
true, even to the old horse leading the soldiers back to 
his fallen rider. The man lived; but "Two Bits" died of 
his. wounds, and is buried under a heap of stones beside 
the overland road a few miles west of Ft. Wingate, N. M. 
The ride was about 250 miles.^Ed.] 



FEENS AND FERNERIES 

By Belle Sijmneb Angier 

BEFORE planting your out-of-door retreat for 
ferns, if you may not go into the hills and 
study your plan from Nature at least put yourself 
in the right mental attitude by reading some of 
the beautiful stories of wild woods life such as are 
written by Burroughs, or Mabie, or Van Dyke, and 
I am sure your results will be far more satisfactory. 
Now as to how, and where, and what to plant. 
When it is considered that of the adiantum alone 
there are over eighty species and that of the three 
great divisions of the fern family there are hun- 



Ferns and Ferneries 199 

dreds of forms known as decorative plants, it would 
seem that a choice might be difficult, but in Cali- 
fornia for out-of-door planting the selection of 
ferns for a fernery may be summed up in this 
way: Avoid so-called hardy Northern ferns, be- 
cause they do not like our dry air and have too 
long a period of sleep. On the contrary, seek for 
the fern of tropical or warm countries and help 
them adapt themselves to our conditions. 

Now all ferns like about the same treatment in a 
general sort of way — leaf-mold, loam and silver 
sand. There it is in a nutshell, but, as you know 
from observing the habits of our native ferns, some 
seek shallow soil under the rocks, some like a little 
clay, some grow on the edge of the water, while 
others like to be well drained. In building a rock- 
ery for ferns, a north side is all right, but there 
must be some light, as, while the direct rays burn, 
yet the fern must have warmth. Avoid sour or 
heavy soil. Plenty of good loam, then your rocks, 
selected, if possible, with an eye to their artistic 
and picturesque arrangement ; then, after building 
them together, scatter your mixture of loam and 
leaf-mold about in the crevices, and place your 
ferns. Wind is not desirable any more than sun, 
and, of course, frost must be provided against. 

The Japanese fern-balls, so much used on this 
coast, are of the Japanese climbing fern, and are 
gathered from the trees and wound about balls of 
moss. No one in this country has been really suc- 
cessful in imitating the Japanese in making these 
balls. Sometimes the Japs get overeager to get 
their balls to market and do not let them lie dor- 
mant long enough, and then the florist who im- 



200 Patlnvay to Western Literature 

ports them has many complaints registered aHout 
the poor foliage of the ball. They should properly 
be allowed to remain dormant from October to Jan- 
ary each year, and in this way can be used for 
three or four years successfully. AVhen received 
here they are dormant, and require about six weeks 
of sprinkling to bring them to perfection. 

I have seen our native ferns used after the same 
manner by taking the roots, carefully washing 
from them all the sand, then binding on the ex- 
terior of an '^olla," or Mexican porous water-jar. 
Use a black thread to bind with, and do not be spar- 
ing of the roots. The natural seepage of the water 
through the porous jar will soon start the delicate 
green and your cool drink will taste all the fresher 
and cooler for the suggestive surroundings. — From 
''The Garden Book of California." 



THE WHEAT 

By Frank Norris 

AN hour after daylight the next morning the 
work was resumed. After breakfast Van- 
amee, riding one horse and leading the others, had 
returned to the line of ploughs together with the 
other drivers. Now he was busy harnessing the 
team. At the division blacksmith shop — temporarily 
put up — he had been obliged to wait while one of 
his lead horses was shod, and he had thus Been de- 
layed quite five minutes. Nearly all the other teams 
were harnessed, the drivers on their seats, waiting 
for the foreman's signal. 



The Wheat 201 

'*A11 ready here?" inquired the foreman, driv- 
ing up to Vananiee 's team in his buggy. 

*'A11 ready, sir," answered Vanamee, buckling 
the last strap. 

He climbed to his seat, shaking out the reins, 
and, turning about, looked back along the line, then 
all around him at the landscape inundated with 
the brilliant glow of the early morning. 

The day was fine. Since the first rain of the sea- 
son there had been no other. Now the sky was 
without a cloud, pale blue, delicate luminous, scin- 
tillating with morning. The great brown earth 
turned a huge flank to it, exhaling the moisture of 
the early dew. The atmosphere, washed clean of 
dust and mist, was translucent as crystal. Far off 
to the east the hills on the other side of Broclerson 
Creek stood out against the pallid saffron of the 
horizon as flat and as sharply outlined as if pasted 
on the sky. The campanile of the ancient Mission 
of San Juan seemed as fine as frost work. All 
about between the horizons the carpet of the land 
unrolled itself to infinity. But now it was no 
longer parched with heat, cracked and warped by 
a merciless sun, powdered with dust. The rain 
had done its work ; not a clod that was not swollen 
with fertility, not a fissure that did not exhale the 
sense of fecundity. One could not take a dozen 
steps upon the ranches without the brusque sensa- 
tion that under foot the land was alive — roused at 
last from its sleep, palpitating with the desire of 
reproduction. 

The plows, thirty-five in number, each drawn 
by its team of ten, stretched in an interminable 
line, nearly a quarter of a mile in length, behind 



202 Pathway to Western Literature 

and ahead of Vanamee. They were arranged, as 
it were, en echelon, not in file — not one directly be- 
hind the other, but each succeeding plow its own 
width farther in the field than the one in front of 
it. Each of these plows held five shears, so that 
when the entire company was in motion, one hun- 
dred and seventy-five furrows were made at the 
same instant. At a distance the plows resembled 
a great column of field artillery. Each driver was 
in his place, his glance alternating between his 
horses and the foreman nearest at hand. Other 
foremen, in their buggies or buckboards, were at 
intervals along the line, like battery lieutenants. 
Annixter himself, on horseback, in boots and cam- 
paign hat, a cigar in his teeth, overlooked the 
scene. 

The division superintendent, on the opposite 
side of the line, galloped past to a position at the 
head. For a long moment there was a silence. A 
sense of preparedness ran from end to end of the 
column. All things were ready, each man in his 
place. The day's work was about to begin. 

Suddenly from a distance at the head of the line 
came the shrill trilling of a whistle. At once the 
foreman nearest Vanamee repeated it, at the same 
time turning down the line and waving one arm. 
The signal was repeated, whistle answering whistle, 
till the sounds lost themselves in the distance. At 
once the line of plows lost its immobility, moving 
forward, getting slowly under way, the horses 
straining in the traces. A prolonged movement 
rippled from team to team, disengaging in its pass- 
age a multitude of sounds — the click of buckles, 
the creak of straining leather, the subdued clash of 



The Wheat 203 

machinery, the cracking of whips, the deep breath- 
ing of nearly four hundred horses, the abrupt com- 
mands and cries of the drivers, and last of all the 
prolonged, soothing murmur of the thick, brown 
earth turning steadily from the multitude of ad- 
vancing shears. 

The ploughing thus commenced continued. The 
sun rose higher. Steadily the hundred iron hands 
kneaded and furrowed and stroked the brown, 
humid earth, the hundred iron teeth bit deep into 
the Titan's flesh. Perched on his seat, the moist 
living reins slipping and tugging in his hands, 
Vanamee, in the midst of this steady confusion of 
constantly varying sensation, sight interrupted by 
sound, sound mingling with sight, on this swaying, 
vibrating seat, quivering with the prolonged thrill 
of the earth, lapsed to a sort of pleasing numbness, 
in a sense hypnotized by the weaving maze of 
things in which he found himself involved. To 
keep his team at an even, regular gait, maintaining 
the precise interval, to run his furrows as closely 
as possible to those already made by the plow in 
front — this for the moment was the entire sum of 
his duties. 

The ploughing, now in full swing, enveloped him 
in a vague, slow-moving whirl of things. Under- 
neath him was the jarring, jolting, trembling ma- 
chine; not a clod was turned, not an obstacle en- 
countered, that he did not receive the swift im- 
pression of it through all his body ; the very friction 
of the damp soil, sliding incessantly from the shiny 
surface of the shears, seemed to reproduce itself in 
his finger tips and along the back of his head. He 
heard the horse hoofs by the myriads crushing 



204 Pathway to Western Literature 

down easily, deeply into the loam; the prolonged 
clinking of trace-chains ; the working of the smooth, 
brown flanks in the harness ; the clatter of wooden 
hames ; the champing of bits ; the click of iron shoes 
against the pebbles ; the brittle stubble of the sur- 
face ground crackling and snapping as the fur- 
rows turned ; the sonorous, steady breaths wrenched 
from the deep-laboring chests, strap-bound, shining 
with sweat, and all along the line the voices of the 
men talking to the horses. Everywhere there were 
visions of glossy brown backs, straining, heaving, 
swollen with muscle; harness streaked with specks 
of froth; broad, cup-shaped hoofs heavy with 
brown loam ; men 's faces red with tan ; blue over- 
alls spotted with axle grease; muscled hands, the 
knuckles whitened in their grip on the reins, and 
through it all the ammoniacal smell of the horses, 
the bitter reek of perspiration of beasts and men, 
the aroma of warm leather, the scent of dead stub- 
ble — and, stronger and more penetrating than ev- 
erything else, the heavy, enervating odor of the up- 
turned, living earth. 

At intervals, from the tops of one of the rare, 
low swells of the land, Vanamee overlooked a 
wider horizon. On the other divisions of Quien 
Sabe the same work was in progress. Occasionally 
he could see another column of plows in an adjoin- 
ing division — sometimes so close at hand that the 
subdued murmur of its movements reached his ear ; 
sometimes so distant that it resolved itself into a 
long, brown streak upon the gray of the ground. 
Farther off to the west on the Osterman ranch 
other columns came and went, and once, from the 
crest of the highest swell on his division, Vanamee 



The Wheat 205 

caught a distant glimpse of the Broderson ranch. 
There, too, moving specks indicated that the plow- 
ing was under way. And farther away still, far 
off there beyond the fine line of the horizons over 
the curve of the globe, the shoulder of the earth, 
he knew were other ranches, and beyond these oth- 
ers, and beyond these still others, the immensities 
multiplying to infinity. 

Everywhere throughout the great San Joaquin, 
unseen and unheard, a thousand plows up-stirred 
the lands, tens of thousands of shears clutched deep 
into the warm, moist earth. 

From time to time the gang in which Vanamee 
worked halted on the signal from foreman or over- 
seer. The horses came to a standstill, the vague 
clamor of the work lapsed away. Then the minutes 
passed. The whole work hung suspended. All up 
and down the line one demanded what had hap- 
pened. The division superintendent galloped past, 
perplexed and anxious. For the moment one of 
the plows was out of order, a bolt had slipped, a 
lever refused to work, or a machine had become 
immobilized in heavy ground, or a horse had lamed 
himself. Once, even, toward noon, an entire plow 
was taken out of line, so out of gear that a mes- 
senger had to be sent to the division forge to sum- 
mon the machinist. 

At half-past twelve Vanamee and the rest of the 
drivers ate their lunch in the field, the tin buckets 
having been distributed to them that morning after 
breakfast. But in the evening the routine of the 
previous day w^as repeated, and Vanamee, unhar- 
nessing his team, riding one horse and leading the 



206 Pathway to Western Literature 

others, returned to the division barns and bunk- 
house. 

9P ^ w w tP ^ ^ iff 

The brown earth, smooth, unbroken, was a limit- 
less, mud-colored ocean. The silence was profound. 
Then, at length, Annixter 's searching eye made out 
a blur on the horizon to the northward; the blur 
concentrated itself to a speck; the speck grew by 
steady degrees to a spot, slowly moving, a note of 
dull color, barely darker than the land, but an 
inky black silhouette as it topped a low rise of 
ground and stood for a moment outlined against 
the pale blue of the sky. Annixter turned his 
horse from the road and rode across the ranch land 
to meet this new object of interest. There were 
horses in the column. At first glance it appeared 
as if there were nothing else — a riderless squadron 
tramping steadily over the up-turned plowed land 
of the ranch. But it drew nearer. The horses 
were in lines, six-abreast, harnessed to machines. 
The noise increased; defined itself. There was a 
shout or two; occasionally a horse blew through 
his nostrils with a prolonged, vibrating snort. The 
click and click of metal work was incessant, the 
machines throwing off a continual rattle of wheels 
and cogs and clashing springs. The column ap- 
proached nearer; was close at hand. The noises 
mingled to a subdued uproar, a bewildering con- 
fusion; the impact of innumerable hoofs was a 
veritable rumble. Machine after machine appeared, 
and Annixter, drawing to one side, remained for 
nearly ten minutes watching and interested, while, 
like an array of chariots — clattering, jostling, 
creaking, clashing an interminable procession, ma- 



The Wheat 207 

chine succeeding machine, six-horse team succeed- 
ing six-horse team — bustling, hurried — Magnus 
Derrick's thirty-three grain drills, each with its 
eight hoes, went clamoring past, like an advance 
of military, seeding the ten thousand acres of the 
great ranch. 

When the drills had passed, Annixter turned 
and rode back to the Lower road, over the land now 
thick with seed. Now there was nothing to do but 
wait, while the seed silently germinated; nothing 
to do but watch for the wheat to come up. 

Now it was alm'ost day. The east glowed opales- 
cent. All about him Annixter saw the land inun- 
dated with light. But there was a change. Over- 
night something had occurred. In his perturba- 
tion the change seemed to him, at first, elusive, 
almost fanciful, unreal. But now, as the light 
spread he looked again at the gigantic scroll of 
ranch lands unrolled before him from edge to edge 
of the horizon. The change was not fanciful. The 
change was real. The earth was no longer bare. 
The land was no longer barren — no longer empty, 
no longer dull brown. All at once Annixter shouted 
aloud. 

There it was, the Wheat, the Wheat ! The little 
seed, long planted, germinating in the deep, dark 
furrows of the soil, straining, swelling, suddenly in 
one night had come upward to the light. The wheat 
had come up. It was there before him, around 
him, everywhere, illimitable, immeasurable. The 
winter brownness of the ground was overlaid with 
a little shimmer of green. The promise of the 
sowing was being fulfilled. The earth, the loyal 



208 Pathway to Western Literature 

mother, who never failed, who never disappointed, 
was keeping her faith again. Once more the 
strength of nations was renewed. Once more the 
force of the world was revivified. 

The California summer lay blanketwise and 
smothering over all the land. The hills, bone-dry, 
were browned and parched. The grasses and wild- 
oats, sear and yellow, snapped like glass filaments 
under foot. The roads, the bordering fences, even 
the lower leaves and branches of the trees, were 
thick and gray with dust. All color had been 
burned from the landscape, except in the irrigated 
patches, that in the waste of brown and dull yel- 
low glowed like oases. 

The wheat, close now to maturity, had turned 
from pale yellow to golden yellow and from that to 
brown. Like a gigantic carpet it spread itself 
over all the land. There was nothing else to be 
seen but the limitless sea of wheat as far as the eye 
could reach; dry, rustling, crisp and harsh in the 
rare breaths of hot winds out of the southeast — and 
now the harvesting begins. 

The sprocket adjusted, the engineer called up 
the gang and the men took their places. The fire- 
man stoked vigorously, the two sack-sewers re- 
sumed their posts on the sacking platform, putting 
on the goggles that kept the chaff from their eyes. 
The separator-man and head-man gripped their 
levers. 

The harvester, shooting a column of thick smoke 
straight upward, vibrating to the top of the stack, 
hissed, clanked, and lurched forward. Instantly 
motion sprang to life in all its component parts; 



The Wheat 209 

the header knives, cutting a thirty-six foot swath, 
gnashed like teeth; beltings slid and moved like 
smooth-flowing streams ; the separator whirred ; the 
agitator jarred and crashed; cylinders, augers, 
fans, seeders and elevators, drapers and chaff-car- 
riers clattered, rumbled, buzzed and clanged. The 
steam hissed and rasped ; the ground reverberated 
a hollow note, and the thousands upon thousands 
of wheat stalks, sliced and slashed in the clashing 
shears of the header, rattled like dry rushes in a 
hurricane, as they fell inward and were caught up 
by an endless belt, to disappear into the bowels of 
the vast brute that devoured them. 

Without an instant's pause, a thick rivulet of 
wheat rolled and dashed tumultuous into the sack. 
In half a minute — sometimes in twenty seconds — the 
sack was full, was passed over to the second sewer, 
the mouth reeved up and the sack dumped out upon 
the ground, to be picked up by the wagons and 
hauled to the railroad. 

All that shrieking, bellowing machinery, all that 
gigantic organism, all the months of labor, the 
plowing, the planting, the prayers for rain, the 
years of preparation, the heartaches, the anxiety, 
the foresight, all the whole business of the ranch, 
the work of the horses, of steam, of men and boys, 
looked to this spot — the grain chute from the har- 
vester into the sacks. Its volume was the index of 
failure or success, of riches or poverty. At this 
point the labor of the rancher ended. Here at the 
lip of the chute, he parted company with his grain, 
and from here the wheat streamed forth to feed the 
world. The yawning mouths of the sacks might 
well stand for the unnumbered mouths of the peo- 



210 Pathway to Western Literature 

pie, all agape for food ; and here, into these sacks, 
at first so lean, so flaccid, attenuated like starved 
stomachs, rushed the living stream of food, insist- 
ent, interminable, filling the empty, fattening the 
shriveled, making it sleek and heavy and solid. — 
From ''The Octopus/' 



NIGHTTIME IN CALIFORNIA 

By a. J. Watebhouse 

NIGHTTIME in California. There's nothing 
like it found, 
Though to and fro you come and go and journey 

earth around. 
The skies are like a crystal sea, with islands made 

of stars; 
The moon's a fairy ship that sails among its shoals 

and bars ; 
And on that sea I sit and look, and wonder where 

it ends; 
If I shall sail its phantom wave, and where the 

journey tends. 
And if — in vain I wonder; let's change the solemn 

theme. 
For the nights of California were made for man to 

dream. 

Nighttime in California. The cricket's note is 
heard. 

And now, perhaps, the twitter of a drowsy, dream- 
ing bird. 



Nightthne in California 211 

An oar is plashing yonder; the wakeful frogs re- 
ply. 

The breeze is chanting in the trees a ghostly lul- 
laby. 

The moon has touched with silver the peaceful, 
sleeping world, 

And in the weary soul of man the flag of sorrow's 
furled. 

'Tis a time for smiles and music; 'tis a time for 
love divine. 

For the nights of California are Heav'n this side 
the line. 

Nighttime in California. Elsewhere men only 
guess 

At the glory of the evenings that are perfect — 
nothing less; 

But here the nights, returning, are the wondrous 
gifts of God — • 

As if the days were maidens fair with golden slip- 
pers shod. 

There is no cloud to hide the sky; the universe is 
ours. 

And the starlight likes to look and laugh in Cupid- 
haunted bowers. 

Oh, the restful, peaceful evenings ! In them my 
soul delights, 

For God loved California when He gaves to her 
her nights. 

— From ' ' Some Homely Little Songs. ' ' 



212 PatJnoay to Western Literature 

A SON OF COPPER SIN 

By Herman Whitakeb 

WITHIN his bull's-hide tepee, old Iz-le-roy lay 
and fed his little fire, stick by stick. He 
was sick, very sick — sick with the sickness which is 
made up of equal parts of hunger, old age, fever 
and despair. Just one week before his tribe had 
headed up for Winnipegoos, where the whitefish 
may be had for the taking and the moose winter 
in their yards. But a sick man may not travel the 
long trail, so Iz-le-roy had remained at White 
Man's Lake. And Batiste, his son, stayed also. 
Not that it was expected of him, for, according to 
forest law, the man who cannot hunt had better 
die ; but Batiste had talked with the gentle priest 
of Ellice, and had chosen to depart from the cus- 
tom of his fathers. 

And things had gone badly, very badly, since 
the tribe had marched. North, south, east and 
west, the round of the plains, and through the leaf- 
less woods, the boy had hunted without as much as 
a jack-rabbit falling to his gun. For two days no 
food had passed their lips, and now he was gone 
forth to do that which Iz-le-roy had almost rather 
die than have him do — ask aid of the settlers. 

*'Yea, my son," the old warrior had faltered, 
''these be they that stole the prairies of our fath- 
ers. Yet it may be that Big Laugh, best of an evil 
brood, will give us of his store of flour and bacon. ' ' 

So, after placing a plentiful stock of wood close 



[By permission of Messrs. Harper & Brothers.] 



A So7i of Copper Sin 213 

to the old man's hand, Batiste had closed the tepee 
flap and laced it. At the end of an hour's fast 
walking, during which the northern sky grew dark 
with the threat of still more cruel weather, he 
sighted through the drift a spurting column of 
smoke. 

The smoke marked the cabin of John Sterling, 
and also his present occupation. AVithin, John sat 
and fired the stove, while Avis, his daughter, set 
out the breakfast dishes, and his wife turned the 
sizzling bacon in the pan. 

"I declare," exclaimed the woman, pausing, 
knife in hand, ' ' if that bread ain 't froze solid ! ' ' 

''Cold last night," commented Sterling. "Put 
it in the oven, Mary. ' ' 

As she stooped to obey, the door quietly opened 
and Batiste slipped in. His moose moccasins made 
no noise, and he was standing close beside her when 
she straightened. She jumped and gasped : 

* ' Lor ' 'a ' mercy ! How you do scare one ! Why 
don't you knock?" 

Batiste stared. It was the custom of his tribe 
thus to enter a house — a custom established before 
jails were built or locks invented. His eye there- 
fore roamed questioningly from one to another un- 
til Sterling asked : 

"What d' want, young fellow?" 

Batiste pointed to the frying-pan. "Ba-kin!" 
he muttered. "The ba-kin of Big Laugh, I want. 
Iz-le-roy sick, plenty sick. Him want flour, him 
want ba-kin." 

The thought of his father's need flashed into his 
mind, and, realizing the impossibility of expressing 
himself in English, he broke into a voluble stream 
15 



214 Pathway to Western Literature 

of Cree, punctuating its rolling gutterals with en- 
ergetic signs. While he was speaking, Avis ceased 
rattling her dishes. 

"He looks awfully hungry, dad," she whispered 
as Batiste finished. 

Now, though Sterling was a large-souled, gener- 
ous man, and jovial — as evidenced by his name of 
Big Laugh — it happened that, during the past sum- 
mer, a roving band of Sioux had camped hard by 
and begged him out of patience. That morning, 
too, the threatening weather had spoiled an in- 
tended trip to Russel and touched his temper — of 
which he had a goodly share. 

"Can't help it, girl," he snapped. "If we feed 
every hungry Injun that comes along, we'll soon 
be out of house and home. Can't do anything for 
you, boy." 

"Him Avant ba-kin," Batiste said. 

"Well, you can just want." 

"Iz-le-roy sick, him want ba-kin," the boy 
pleaded. 

His persistence irritated Sterling, and, crowding 
down the better feeling which spoke for the lad, he 
sprang up, threw wide the door, and shouted : 

"Get, you son of copper sin ! Get, now ! Quick ! ' ' 

"Father!" pleaded the girl. 

But he took no heed, and held wide the door. 

Into Batiste's face flashed surprise, anger and 
resentment. Surprise, because he had not believed 
all the things Iz-le-roy had told him of the white 
men, but had preferred to think them all like 
Father Francis. But now? His father was right. 
They were all cold and merciless, their hearts hard 
as their steel ax-heads, their tongues sharp as the 



A Son of Copper Sin 215 

cutting edge. With head held high he marched 
through the door, away from the hot stove, the 
steaming coffee, and the delicious smell of frying 
bacon, out into the cold storm. 

"Oh, father!" remonstrated his wife as Sterling 
closed the door. 

"Look here, Mary," he answered testily. "We 
fed a whole tribe last summer, didn 't we ? " 

"But this lad don't belong to them," she 
pleaded. 

"All the worse," he rejoined. "Do an Injun a 
good turn an' he never forgets. Give him his 
breakfast, an' he totes his tribe along to dinner." 

"AVell," sighed the good woman, "I'm real 
sorry. ' ' 

For a few moments both were silent. And pre- 
sently, as the man 's kindly nature began to triumph 
over his irritation, he hitched uneasily in his chair. 
Already he felt ashamed. Casting a sheepish 
glance at his wife, he rose, walked to the door, and 
looked out. But a wall of whirling white blocked 
his vision — Batiste was gone beyond recall. 

"Where's Avis?" he asked, returning to the 
stove. 

' ' A-vis ! ' ' called her mother. 

But there was no answer. For a moment man 
and wife stared each other in the eye ; then, moved 
by a common impulse, they walked into the kitchen. 
There, on the table, lay the half of a fresh-cut side 
of bacon ; the bread-box was open and a crusty loaf 
missing ; the girl 's shawl was gone from its peg and 
her overshoes from their corner. 

"Good God!" gasped the settler. "The child's 

gone after him!" 
16 



216 Pathivay to Westeiii Literature 

They knew the risk. All the morning the storm 
had been breAving, and now it thundered by, a 
veritable blizzard. The blizzard ! King of storms ! 
It compels the settler to string a wire from house 
to stables, it sets men to circling in the snow, it 
catches little children coming home from school 
and buries them in its monstrous drifts. 

Without another word Sterling wound a scarf 
about his neck, grabbed his badger mitts, and 
rushed outside. 

When Avis softly closed the kitchen door she 
could just see Batiste rounding a bluff that lay a 
furlong west of her father's stables. She started 
after him ; but by the time she had covered half the 
distance a sea of white swept in between and blot- 
ted him from view. 

She struggled on, and on, and still on, until, in 
spite of the seventy degrees of frost, the perspira- 
tion burst from every pore and the scud melted on 
her glowing face. This Avas well enough — so long 
as she kept moving; but when the time came that 
she must stop, she would freeze all the quicker for 
her present warmth. 

This, being born and bred of the prairie. Avis 
knew, and the knowledge kept her toiling, toiling 
on, until her tired legs and leaden feet compelled a 
pause in the shelter of a bluff. She was hungry, 
too. All this time she carried the bread and meat, 
and now, unconscious of a pair of slant eyes which 
glared from a willow thicket, she broke the loaf and 
began to eat. While she ate, the green lights in the 
eyes flared brighter, a long red tongue licked the 
drool from grinning jaws, and forth from his cov- 
ert stole a lank, gray wolf. 



A Son of Copper Sin 217 

Avis littered a startled cry. This was no coyote, 
to be chased with a stick, but a wolf of timber 
stock, a great beast, heavy, prick-eared, strong 
as a mastiff. His nose puckered in a wicked snarl 
as he slunk in half-circles across her front. He 
was undecided. So, while he circled, trying to 
make up his mind, drawing a little nearer at every 
turn. Avis fell back — back towards the bluff, keep- 
ing her white face always to the creeping beast. 

It was a small bluff, lacking a tree large enough 
to climb, but sufficient for her purpose. On its edge 
she paused, threw the bacon to the wolf, and then 
ran desperately. Once clear of the scrub, she ran 
on, plunging through drifts, stumbling, falling, to 
rise again and push her flight. Of direction she 
took no heed; her only thought was to place dis- 
tance between herself and the red-mouthed brute. 
But when, weary and breathless, she paused for 
rest, out of the drab drift stole the lank, gray 
shadow. 

The brute crouched a few yards away, licking 
his sinful lips, winking his devil eyes. She still 
had the loaf. As she threw it, the wolf sprang and 
snapped it in mid-air. Then she ran, and ran, and 
ran, as the tired doe runs from the hounds. For 
what seemed to her an interminable time, though 
it was less than five minutes, she held on; then 
stopped, spent, unable to take another step. Look- 
ing back, she saw nothing of the wolf; but just 
when she began to move slowly forward, thinking 
he had given up the chase, a grap shape loomed 
right ahead. 

Uttering a bitter cry, she turned once more, tot- 
tered a few steps, and fainted. 



218 Pathway to Western Literature 

As, wildly calling his daughter's name, Sterling 
rushed by his stables, the wind smote him with tre- 
mendous power. Like a living thing it buffeted 
him about the ears, tore at his breath, poured over 
him an avalanche of snow. Still he pressed on 
and gained the bluff which Avis missed. 

As he paused to draw a free breath, his eye 
picked out a fresh-made track. Full of a sudden 
hope, he shouted. A voice answered, and as he 
rushed eagerly forward a dark figure came through 
the drift to meet him. It was Batiste. 

' ' What do you Avant ? " he asked. 

Sterling was cruelly disappointed, but he ans- 
wered quickly : ' ' You see my girl ? Yes, my girl, ' ' 
he relocated, noting the lad's look of Avonder. 
''Young white squaw, you see um?" 

"Mooniah papoose?" queried Batiste. 

''Yes, yes! She follow you. AVant give you 
bread, want give you bacon. All gone, all lost!" 
Sterling finished with a despairing gesture. 

"Squaw marche to me? Ba-kin for me?" ques- 
tioned Batiste. 

"Yes, yes!" crief Sterling, in a flurry of impa- 
tience. 

' ' I find um, ' ' he said, softly. 

Briefly Batiste laid down his plan, eking out his 
scanty English with vivid signs. In snow, the 
white man rolls along like a clumsy buffalo, plant- 
ing his feet far out to the right and left. And be- 
cause his right leg steps a little further than the 
left, he always, when lost, travels in a circle. 
Wherefore Batiste indicated that they should move 
along parallel lines, just shouting distance apart, 
so as to cover the largest possible ground. 



A Son of Copper Sin 219 

''Young squaw marche slow. She there!" He 
pointed north and east with a gesture. ''Yes, 
there!'' 

Batiste paused until Sterling got his distance; 
then, keeping the wind slanting to his left cheek, 
he moved off north and east. Ever and anon he 
stopped to give forth a piercing yell. If Sterling 
answered, he moved on ; if not — as happened twice 
— he traveled in his direction until they were once 
more in touch. And so, shouting and yelling, they 
bore off north and east for a long half -hour. 

After that. Batiste began to throw his cries both 
east and west, for he judged that they must be 
closing on the girl. And suddenly, from the north, 
came a weird, tremulous answer. He started, and 
throwing up his head, emitted the wolf's long howl. 
Leaning forward, he waited — his very soul in his 
ears — until, shrill yet deep-chested and quivering 
with ferocity, came back the answering howl. 

No coyote gave forth that cry, and Batiste 
knew it, 

' ' Timber wolf ! " he muttered. 

Turning due north, he gave the settler a warning 
yell, then sped like a hunted deer in the direction 
of the cry. He ran with the long, lithe lope which 
tires down even the swift elk, and in five minutes 
covered nearly a mile. Once more he gave forth 
the wolf howl. An answer came from close Hy, but 
as he sprang forward it ended with a frightened 
yelp. Through a break in the drift he spied a 
moving figure ; then a swirl swept in and blotted it 
from view. 

But he had seen the girl. A dozen leaps and he 



220 Pathway to Western Literature 

was close upon her. Just as he opened his mouth 
to speak, she screamed and plunged headlong. 

When consciousness returned, Avis was lying m 
her own bed. Her mother bent over her ; Sterling 
stood near by. All around were the familiar things 
of life, but her mind still retained a vivid picture 
of her flight, and she sprang up screaming : 

''The wolf; oh, the wolf!'' 

' ' Hush, dearie, ' ' her mother soothed. ' ' It wasn 't 
a wolf, but just the Cree boy. ' ' 

Batiste had told how she screamed at the sight 
of his gray, snow-covered blanket, and the cry had 
carried even to her father. But when she recov- 
ered sufficiently to tell her story, the father shud- 
dered and the mother exclaimed : 

''John, we owe that boy more than we can ever 
pay!" 

"We do!" he fervently agreed. 

Just then the latch of the other door clicked, and 
a cold blast streamed into the bedroom. Jumping 
up, the mother cried : 

"Run, John; he's going!" 

' ' Here, young fellow ! ' ' shouted the settler. 

Batiste paused in the doorway, his hand on the 
latch, his slight body silhouetted against the white 
of the storm. 

"Where you going, boy?" 

"To Iz-le-roy," he answered. *'Him sick. 
Bezhou!" 

Sterling strode forward and caught him by the 
shoulder. "No, you don't," he said — "not that 
way. ' ' Then, turning, he called into the bedroom : 
"Here, mother! Get out all your wraps while I 



October Clouds 221 

hitch the ponies. And fix up our best bed for a 
sick man." — From ''The Probationer." 



w 



OCTOBER CLOUDS 

By Maky B. Williams 

ITH fold on fold in quiet rest 

The gray clouds lie along the west — 
In sweet repose they lie, 
While overhead they sail away 
Like phantom ships on a placid bay — 
Like ships they sail on high. 

And in and out through rifts of blue, 
The gray ships tipped in silver hue, 

Now idly float along ; 
And tiny clouds in northern sky 
Like flocks of birds prepared to fly 

To southland, home of song. 

And herd on herd in glowing east, 
With here and there a straggling beast, 

'er pastures blue they rove ; 
Their shining sides are flecked with gold. 
They number o 'er a thousand fold — 

A countless herd they move. 

And in the south white domes arise, 
Cathedral spires pierce the skies, 

And hanging gardens fair, 
And palaces in grandeur stand 
In ether blue above the land — 

My castles in the air. 



222 Pathway to Western Literature 

But what are all these visions grand, 
Unless I see the Pilot's hand, 

That sails my cloud-ships by. 
Or folds them on the mountain crest, 
And keeps them there at perfect rest, 

Along the western sky ? 



HUMMERS 

By FloeejsCe A. Merriam 

CALIFORNIA is the land of flowers and hum- 
ming-birds. Humming-birds are there the 
winged companions of the flowers. In the valleys 
the airy bird hovers about the filmy golden mustard 
and the sweet-scented primroses; on the blooming 
hillsides in spring the air is filled with whirring 
wings and piping voices, as the fairy troops pass 
and repass at their mad gambols. At one moment 
the birds are circling methodically around the 
whorls of the blue sage; at the next hurtling 
through the air after a distant companion. The 
great wild gooseberry bushes with red fuchsia-like 
flowers are like beehives, swarming with noisy 
hummers. The whizzing and whirring lead one to 
the bushes from a distance, and on approaching 
one is met by the brown spindle-like birds, darting 
out from the blooming shrubs, gleams of gold, 
green and scarlet glancing from their gorgets. 

The large brown hummers probably stop in the 
valley only on their way north, but the little black- 
chinned ones make their home there, and the big 
spreading sycamores and the great live oaks are 



Hummers 223 

their nesting grounds. In the big oak beside the 
ranch house I have seen two or three nests at once ; 
and a ring of live oaks in front of the house held a 
complement of nests. From the hammock under 
the oak beside the house one could watch the birds 
at their work. If the front door was left open, the 
hummers would sometimes fly inside; and as we 
stepped out they often darted away from the flow- 
ers growing under the windows. 

California is the best of all places to study hum- 
ming-birds. The only drawback is that there are 
always too many other birds to watch at the same 
time; but one sees enough to w^ant to see more. I 
never saw a humming-bird courtship, unless — per- 
haps one performance I saw was part of the woo- 
ing. I was sitting on Mountain Billy under the lit- 
tle lover's sycamore when a buzzing and whirring 
sounded overhead. On a twig sat a wee green lady 
and before her was her lover (1), who, with the 
sound and regularity of a spindle in a machine, 
swung shuttling from side to side in an arc less 
than a yard long. He never turned around, or took 
his eyes off his lady's, but threw himself back at 
the end of his line by a quick spread of his tail. 
She sat with her eyes fixed upon him, and as he 
moved from side to side her long bill followed him 
in a very droll way. When through with his dance 
he looked at her intently, as if to see what effect 
his performance had had upon her. She made some 
remark, apparently not to his liking, for when he 
had answered he flew away. She called after him, 
but as he did not return she stretched herself and 
flew up on a twig above with an amusing air of re- 
lief. 



224 Pathway to Western Literature 

This is all I have ever seen of the courtship ; but 
when it comes to nest-building, I have often been 
an eyewitness to that. One little acquaintance 
made a nest of yellow down and put it among the 
green oak leaves, making me think that the laws of 
protective coloration had no weight with her, but 
before the eggs were laid she had neatly covered 
the yellow with flakes of green lichen. I found her 
one day sitting in the sun with the top of her head 
as white as though she had been diving into the 
flour barrel. Here w^as one of the wonderful cases 
of ''mutual help" in nature. The flowers supply 
insects and honey to the humming-birds, and they, 
in turn, as they fly from blossom to blossom, prob- 
ing the tubes Avith the long slender bills that have 
gradually come to fit the shape of the tubes, brush 
off the pollen of one blossom to carry it on to the 
next, so enabling the plants to perfect their flowers 
as they could not do without help. It is said that, 
in proportion to their numbers, humming-birds as- 
sist as much as insects in the work of cross-fertiliza- 
tion. 

Though this little hummer that I was watching 
let me come within a few feet of her, when a lizard 
ran under her bush she craned her neck and 
looked over her shoulder at him with surprising in- 
terest. She doubtless recognized him as one of her 
egg-eating enemies, on which account she put her 
nest at the tip of a twig too slender to serve as a 
ladder. 

Another humming-bird who built across the way 
was still more trustful — with people. I used to sit 
leaning against the trunk of her oak and watch the 
nest, which was near the tip of one of the long 



Hummers 225 

swinging branches that drooped over the trail. 
When the tiny worker was at home, a yard-stick 
would almost measure the distance between us. As 
she sat on her nest she sometimes turned her head 
to look down at the dog lying beside me, and often 
hovered over us on going away. 

The nest was saddled on a twig and glued to a 
glossy, dark green oak leaf. Like the other nest, 
it was made of a yellow, spongy substance, prob- 
ably down from the underside of sycamore leaves ; 
and like it, also, the outside was coated with lichen 
and w^ound with cobweb. The bird was a rapid 
worker, buzzing in with her material and then 
buzzing off after more. Once I saw the cobweb 
hanging from her needle-like bill, and thought she 
probably had been tearing down the beautiful sus- 
pension bridges the spiders hang from tree to tree. 

It was very interesting to see her work. She 
would light on the rim of the nest, or else drop di- 
rectly into the tiny cup, and place her material 
with the end of her long bill. It looked like try- 
ing to sew at arm's length. She had to draw back 
her head in order not to reach beyond the nest. 
How much more convenient it would have been if 
her bill had been jointed ! It seemed better suited 
to probing flower tubes than making nests. But 
then, she made nests only in the spring, while she 
fed from flowers all the year round, and so could 
afford to stretch her neck a trifle one month for the 
sake of having a good, long fly-spear during the 
other eleven. The peculiar feature of her work was 
her quivering motion in moulding. When her ma- 
terial was placed she moulded her nest like a pot- 
ter, twirling around against the sides, sometimes 



226 Pathway to Western Literature 

pressing so hard she ruffled up the feathers of her 
breast. She shaped her cup as if it were a piece 
of clay. To round the outside she would sit on the 
rim and lean over, smoothing the sides with her 
bill, often with the same peculiar tremulous mo- 
tion. When working on the outside, at times she 
almost lost her balance, and fluttered to keep from 
falling. To turn around in the nest, she lifted 
herself by whirring her wings. 

When she found a bit of her green lichen aBout 
to fall, she took the loose end in her bill and drew 
it over the edge of the nest, fastening it securely 
inside. She looked very wise and motherly as she 
sat there at work, preparing a home for her brood. 
After building rapidly she would take a short rest 
on a twig in the sun, while she plumed her feathers. 
She made nest-making seem very pleasant work. 

One day, wanting to experiment, I put a handful 
of oak leaves on the nest. They covered the cup 
and hung down over the sides. When the small 
builder came, she hovered over it a few seconds be- 
fore making up her mind how it got there and what 
she had better do about it. Then she calmly lit on 
top of it ! Part of it went off as she did so, but the 
rest she appropriated, fastening in the loose ends 
with the cobweb she had brought. 

She often gave a little squeaky call when on the 
nest as if talking to herself about her work. When 
going off for material she would dart away and 
then, as if it suddenly occurred to her that she did 
not know where she was going, would stop and 
stand perfectly still in the air, her vibrating wings 
sustaining her till she made up her mind, Avhen she 
would shoot off at an angjle. It seemed as if she 



Hummers 227 

would be worn out before night, but her eyes were 
bright and she looked vigorous enough to build 
half a dozen houses. 

* ' There 's odds in folks, ' ' our great-grandmothers 
used to say; and there certainly is in bird folks; 
even in the ways of the same one at different times. 
Now, this humming-bird was content to build right 
in front of my eyes, and the hummer down at the 
little lover's tree, with her first nest, was so indif- 
ferent to Billy and me that I took no pains to 
keep at a distance or disguise the fact that I was 
watching her. But when her nest was destroyed 
she suddenly grew old in the ways of the world, 
and apparently repented having trusted us. In 
any case, I got a lesson on being too prying. The 
first nest had not been down long before I found 
that a second one was being built a few feet away 
— by the same bird ? I imagined so. The nest was 
only just begun, and being especially interested to 
see how such buildings were started, I rode close 
up to watch the work. A roll of sycamore down 
was wound around a twig, and the bottom of the 
nest — the floor — attached to the underside of this 
beam ; with such a solid foundation, the walls could 
easily be supported. 

The small builder came when Billy and I were 
there. She did not welcome us as old friends, but 
sat down on her floor and looked at us — and I never 
saw her there again. Worse than that, she took 
away her nest, presumably to put it down where 
she thought inquisitive reporters would not in- 
trude. I was disappointed and grieved, having 
already planned — on the strength of the first ex- 



228 Pathway to Western Literature 

perience — to have the mother hummer's picture 
taken when she was feeding her young on the nest. 

At first I thought this suspicion reflected upon 
the good sense of humming-birds, Hut after think- 
ing it over concluded that it spoke better for hum- 
ming-birds than for Billy and me. If this were, 
as I supposed, the same bird who had to brood her 
young with Billy gazing at the end of her bill, and 
if she had been present at the unlucky moment 
when he got the oak branches tangled in the pom- 
mel of the saddle, although her branch Avas not 
among them, I can but admire her for moving when 
she found that the Philistines were again upon her, 
for her new house was hung at the tip of a branch 
Billy might easily have swept in passing. 

These nests had all been very low, only four or 
five feet above the ground; but one day I found 
young in one of the common tree-top nests. I could 
see it through the branches. Two little heads stuck 
up above the edge like two small Jacks-in-boxes. 
Billy made such a noise under the oak when the 
bird was feeding the youngsters that I took him 
away where he would not disturb the family, and 
tied him to an oak covered with poison ivy, for he 
was especially fond of eating it and the poison 
did not affect him. 

Before the old hummer flew off, she picked up a 
tiny white feather that she found in the nest, and 
wound it around a twig. On her return, in the 
midst of her feeding, she darted down and set the 
feather flying; but as it got away from her she 
caught it again. The performance was repeated 
the next time she came with food; but she did it 
all so solemnly I could not tell whether she were 



Hummers 229 

playing or trying to get rid of something that 
annoyed her. 

She fed at the long intervals that are so trying 
to an observer, for if you are going to sit for hours 
Avith your eyes glued to a nest, it really is pleas- 
ant to have something happen once in a while ! 
Though the mother bird did not go to the nest 
often, she sometimes flew by, and once the sound 
of her wings roused the young and they called out 
to her as she passed. When they were awake, it 
was amusing to see the little midgets stick out 
their long thread-like tongues, preen their pin- 
feathers and stretch their wings over the nest. 

One fine morning when I went to the oak I heard 
a faint squeak, and saw something fluttering up in 
the tree. When the mother came she buzzed about 
as though not liking the looks of things, for her 
children were out of the nest, and behold ! — a horse 
and rider were under her tree. She tried to coax 
the unruly nestlings to follow her up into the tip- 
per stories, but they would not go. 

Although not ready to be led, one of the in- 
fants soon felt that it would be nice to go alone. 
When a bird first leaves the nest it goes about very 
gingerly, but this little fellow soon began to feel his 
strength and the excitement of his freedom. He 
wiped his tongue on a branch, and then, to my as- 
tonishment, his wings began to whirl as though he 
were getting up steam, and presently they lifted 
him from his twig, and he went whirring off as 
softly as a humming-bird moth, among the sprays. 
His nerves were evidently on edge, for he looked 
around at the sound of falling leaves, started when 
Billy sneezed, and turned from side to side very ap- 



230 Pathway to Western Literature 

prehensively, in spite of his out-in-the-world, big- 
boy airs. He may have felt hampered by his un- 
used wings, for, as he sat there waiting for his 
mother to come, he stroked them out with his bill 
to get them in better working order. That done, 
he leaned over, rounded his shoulders, and pecked 
at a leaf as if he were as grown-up as anybody. 

Of all the beautiful humming-birds' nests I saw 
in California, three are particularly noteworthy be- 
cause of their positions. One cup was set down on 
what looked like an inverted saucer, in the form of 
a dark green oak leaf wound with cobweb. That 
was in the oak beside the ranch house. Another 
one was on a branch of eucalyptus, set between two 
leaves like the knot in a bow of stiff ribbon. To 
my great satisfaction, the photographer was able 
to induce the bird to have a sitting while she brood- 
ed her eggs. The third nest belonged, I imagined, 
to the bird who took up her floor because Billy and 
I looked at her. If she were, her fate was certainly 
hard, for her eggs were taken by some one, boy or 
beast. Her nest was most skillfully supported. It 
was fastened like the seat of a swing between two 
twigs no larger than knitting needles, at the end of 
a long, drooping branch. It was a unique pleasure 
to see the tiny bird sit in her swing and be blown 
by the wind. Sometimes she went circling around 
as though riding in a merry-go-round ; and at oth- 
ers the wind blew so hard her round boat rose and 
fell like a little ship at sea. — Prom '^A-Birding on 
a Bronco/' 



The Foothills 231 

THE FOOTHILLS 

By Stewart Edward White 

AT once our spirits rose. We straightened in 
our saddles, we breathed deep, we joked. 
The country was scorched and sterile; the wagon 
trail, almost paralleling the mountains themselves 
on a long, easy slant toward the high country, was 
ankle deep in dust; the ravines were still dry of 
water. But it was not the Inferno, and that one 
fact sufficed. After a while we crossed high above 
a river which dashed white water against black 
rocks, and so were happy. 

The country went on changing. The change was 
always imperceptible, as in growth, or the stealthy 
advance of autumn through the woods. From mo- 
ment to moment one could detect no alteration. 
Something intangible was taken away; something 
impalpable added. At the end of an hour we 
were in the oaks and sycamores ; at the end of two 
we were in the pines and low mountains of Bret 
Harte's Forty-Nine. 

The wagon trail felt ever farther and farther in- 
to the hills. It had not been used as a stage route 
for years, but the freighting kept it deep with dust, 
that writhed and twisted and crawled lazily knee- 
high to our horses, like a living creature. We felt 
the swing and sweep of the route. The boldness of 
its stretches, the freedom of its reaches for the op- 
posite slope, the wide curve of its horseshoes, all 
filled us with the breath of an expansion which 
as yet the broad, low country only suggested. 

Everything here was reminiscent of long ago. 
17 



232 PatJnvay to Western Literature 

The very names hinted stories of the Argonauts. 
Coarse Gold Gulch, Whiskey Creek Grub Gulch, 
Fine Gold Post Office in turn we passed. Occa- 
sionally, with a fine round dash into the open, the 
trail drew one side to a stage station. The huge 
stables, the wide corrals, the low living houses, 
each shut in its dooryard of blazing riotous flow- 
ers, were all familiar. Only lacked the old-fash- 
ioned Concord coach, from which to descend Jack 
Hamlin or Judge Starbottle. As for M'liss, she 
was there, sunbonnet and all. 

Down in the gulch bottoms were the old placer 
diggings. Elaborate little ditches for the deflection 
of water, long cradles for the separation of gold, 
decayed rockers, and shining in the sun the tons 
and tons of pay dirt which had been turned over 
pound by pound in the concentrating of its treas- 
ure. Some of the old cabins still stood. It was all 
deserted now, save for the few who kept trail for 
the freighters or who tilled the restricted bottom 
lands of the flats. Road-runners racked away down 
the paths ; squirrels scurried over worn-out placers ; 
jays screamed and chattered in and out of the 
abandoned cabins. Strange and shy little creatures 
and birds, reassured by the silence of many years, 
had ventured to take to themselves the engines of 
man's industry. And the warm California sun 
embalmed it all in a peaceful forgetfulness. 

Now the trees grew bigger, and the hills more 
impressive. We should call them mountains in the 
East. Pines covered them to the top, straight, 
slender pines with voices. The little flats were 
planted with great oaks. When we rode through 
them, they shut out the hills, so that we might have 



The Foothills 233 

imagined ourselves in a level, wooded country. 
There insisted the effect of limitless tree-grown 
plains, which the warm, drowsy sun, the park-like 
landscape, corroborated. And yet the contrast of 
the clear atmosphere and the sharp air equally in- 
sisted on the mountains. It was a strange and de- 
licious double effect, a contradiction of natural im- 
pressions, a negation of our right to generalize 
from previous experience. 

Always the trail wound up and up. Never was it 
steep; never did it command an outlook. Yet we 
felt that at last we were rising, were leaving the 
level of the Inferno, were nearing the threshold of 
the high country. 

Mountain peoples came to the edges of their 
clearings and gazed at us, responding solemnly to 
our salutations. They dwelt in cabins and held 
to agriculture and herding of the wild mountain 
cattle. From them we heard of the high country 
to which we were bound. They spoke of it as you 
or I would speak of interior Africa, as something 
inconceivably remote, to be visited only Hy the ad- 
venturous, an uninhabited realm of vast magni- 
tude and unknown dangers. In the same way they 
spoke of the plains. Only the narrow pine-clad 
strip between the two and six thousand feet of 
elevation they felt to be their natural environ- 
ment. In it they found the proper conditions for 
their existence. Out of it those conditions lacked. 
They were as much a localized product as are cer- 
tain plants which occur only at certain altitudes. 
Also were they densely ignorant of trails and 
routes outside of their own little districts. 

All this, you will understand, was in what is 



234 Pathivay to Western Literature 

known as the low country. The landscape was still 
brown; the streams but trickles; sage brush clung 
to the ravines ; the valley quail whistled on the side 
hills. 

But one day we came suddenly into the big pines 
and rocks; and that very night we made our first 
camp in a meadow typical of the mountains we had 
dreamed about. — From ''The Mountains." 



^^THE JOY OF THE HILLS'^ 

By Edwix Markham 

I RIDE on the mountain tops, I ride ; 
I have found my life and am satisfied. 
Onward I ride in the blowing oats, 
Checking the field-lark's rippling notes — 

Lightly I sweep 

From steep to steep : 
Over my head through the branches high 
Come glimpses of a rushing sky ; 
The tall oats brush my horse 's flanks ; 
Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks ; 
A bee booms out of the scented grass ; 
A jay laughs with me as I pass. 

I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget 

Life's hoard of regret — 

All the terror and pain 

Of the chafing chain. 

Grind on, cities, grind; 

I leave you a blur behind. 



Desert Animals 235 

I am lifted elate — the skies expand: 
Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of sand. 
Let them weary and work in their narrow walls : 
I ride with the voices of waterfalls! 

I sAving on as one in a dream — I swing 
Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing ! 
The world is gone like an empty word : 
My body 's a bough in the wind, my heart a bird ! 

—From ''The Man With the Hoe and Other 
Poems. ' ' 



DESEET ANIMALS 

By John C. Van Dyke 

THE Indian and the plant must have some water. 
They cannot go without it indefinitely. And 
just there the desert animals seem to fit their en- 
vironment a little snugger than either plant or 
human. For, strange as it may appear, many of 
them get no water at all. There are sections of the 
desert, fifty or more miles square, where there is 
not a trace of water in river, creek, arroyo or pock- 
et, where there is never a drop of falling dew ; and 
where the two or three showers of rain each year 
sink into the sand and are lost in half an hour 
after they have fallen. Yet that fifty-mile tract 
of sand and rock supports its animal, reptile and in- 
sect life just the same as a similar tract in Illinois 
or Florida. How the animals endure, how — even 



[From "The Desert." Copyright, 1901, by Charles Scrib- 
ner's Sons. By permission of the publishers.] 



236 Pathivay to Western Literature 

on the theory of getting used to it — the jack-rabbit, 
the ground squirrel, the rat, and the gopher can 
live for months without even the moisture from 
green vegetation, is one of the mysteries. A mirror 
held to the nose of a desert rabbit will show a moist 
breath-mark on the glass. The moisture came out 
of the rabbit, is coming out of him every few sec- 
onds of the day ; and there is not a drop of mois- 
ture going into him. Evidently the ancient axiom : 
*'Out of nothing, nothing comes, ^' is all wrong. 

It is said in answer that the jack-rabbit gets 
moisture from roots, cactus lobes and the like. And 
the reply is that you find him where there are no 
roots but greasewood, and no cactus at all. Besides 
there is no evidence from an examination of his 
stomach that he ever eats anything but dried grass, 
bark and sage leaves. But if the matter is a trifle 
doubtful about the rabbit on account of his travel- 
ing capacities, there is no doubt whatever about the 
ground squirrels, the rock squirrels, and the prairie 
dogs. None of them ever gets more than a hundred 
yards from his hole in his life, except possibly 
when migrating. And the circuit about each hole 
is usually bare of everything except dried grass. 
There is no moisture to be had. The prairie dog is 
not found on the desert, but in Wyoming and Mon- 
tana there are villages of them on the grass prai- 
ries, with no water, root, lobe or leaf within miles 
of them. The old theory of the prairie dog digging 
his hole down to water has no basis in fact. Pa- 
tience, a strong arm and a spade will get to the 
bottom of his burrow in half an hour. 

All the desert animals know the meaning of a 
water famine, and even those that are pronounced 



Desert Animals 237 

water drinkers know how to get on with the min- 
imum supply. The mule-deer, whose cousin in the 
Adirondaeks goes down to water every night, lives 
in the desert mountains, month in and month out 
with nothing more watery to quench his thirst than 
a lobe of the prickly pear or a joint of cholla. But 
he is naturally fond of green vegetation, and in the 
early morning he usually leaves the valley and 
climbs the mountains where with goats and moun- 
tain sheep he browses on the twigs of shrub and 
tree. 

The coyote likes Avater too, but he puts up with 
sucking a nest of quail eggs, eating some mes- 
quite beans, or at best absorbing the blood from 
some rabbit. The wild cat will go for weeks with- 
out more moisture than the blood of birds or liz- 
ards, and then, perhaps, after long thirst, he will 
come to a water pocket in the rocks to lap only a 
handful, doing it with an angry, snarling snap as 
though he disliked it and was doing it under com- 
pulsion. The gray wolf is too much a traveler to 
depend upon any one locality. He will run fifty 
miles in a night and be back Hefore morning. 
Whether he gets water or not is impossible to as- 
certain. 

The badger, the coon and the bear are very sel- 
dom seen in the more arid regions. They are not, 
strictly speaking, desert animals because unfitted to 
endure desert hardships. They are naturally great 
eaters and sleepers, loving cool weather and their 
OAvn fatness ; and to that the desert is sharply op- 
posed. There is nothing fat in the land of sand 
and cactus. Animal life is lean and gaunt; if it 
sleeps at all it is with one eye open ; and as for heat 



238 Pathway to Western Literature 

it cares very little about it. For the first law of 
the desert to which animal life of every kind pays 
allegiance is the law of endurance and abstinence. 
After that requirement is fulfilled special needs 
produce the peculiar qualities and habits of the in- 
dividual.— From ''The Desert." 



LEGEND OF THE CHINA LILY 

By Idah Meacham Strobridge 

LONG ago — so long that the world, and all in it, 
"was new; even as all now is old, very old — 
there dwelt in that oldest of all lands, China, a 
man great, and good, and with money and posses- 
sions too plentiful to be counted. And he had 
wives — two, three, or four, as a rich man may. But 
only the children of the first two wives have to do 
with this story. Each wife bore a son. And the 
first-born — ^he that was the son of the first wife — 
was the father's favorite. But the second son it 
Avas who loved the father best. This the sire did 
not know, for the boy hid his great love ; yet ever 
obeying to the most minute particular each request 
asked of him. For goodness, and honor, and duty, 
and truth, for loyalty, and for love, this son was 
one man among ten thousand times ten thousand. 
But the father went about with an invisible fold 
of cloth bound across his eyes by an evil spirit, 
which blinded him to this noble son's worthiness. 
And the evil spirit removed the bandage whenever 
the father looked on the elder son, and put, instead, 
before his eyes a magic glass which made that son's 



Legend of the China Lily 239 

vices seem as virtues, and his treachery as loyalty, 
and his lies as truth, and his deceitful bearing as 
love. So the father was ever deceived, and lived 
out the measure of long life, believing that good 
was evil and that that which was evil Avas good. 

Then, when the measure of his days was done, he 
died; and the people mourned. For he had been 
well beloved for his many virtues and honored for 
his greatness and his riches. 

Now, when his father died the elder son fell to 
lamenting; and he lamented loudly and long the 
first day, and lamented less loud the second day, 
and the third day lamented not at all. For his 
heart was bad; and in secret he rejoiced that his 
sire Avas dead, for now all these great possessions 
would be his own. Money, and hills where the tea 
plants grew, and houses in the village, and rice 
swamps, and riches of many kinds — much of all 
— were his own. All that his father had left was 
his. All but one small bit of waste land far up on 
the side of a great mountain. A barren tract up 
there in a hollow of the heights was deemed of no 
worth; for it had never grown tea-tree, nor rice, 
nor grass, nor flower, nor Aveed. So this was the 
father's bequest to the younger son. For the law 
was that to every son a man had, must be given a 
portion — ^little or great — of his lands when he died ; 
and to this son, to whom he wished to leave noth- 
ing, he could give no less. 

To the elder and favorite went all else ; but to the 
younger, who was worthier than any other child 
of China, was given but this tract covered with fine 
bits of broken rock, where no green thing has ever 



240 Pathway to Western Literature 

grown and where the ground was dry and forbid- 
ding. 

Yet against the unjust division this noble son re- 
belled not; but only mourned the father that was 
dead. Mourned sincerely — mourned without ceas- 
ing and without comfort — that the beloved and 
honorable being was gone beyond the reach of his 
gaze. 

Of the injustice done him — of the smallness of 
his portion of the inheritance — ^he thought little. 
His father w^as dead; his father w^hom he had so 
loved — whom he still loved beyond all expression — 
w^as gone from him. Nothing else mattered. 

And days went by. The elder one went abroad 
among his newly acquired possessions, saying: 
' ' This is mine, now ; and this, and this also. ' ' And, 
because he was what he was, he forgot the dead 
man whose gift all these things had been. 

But his brother, whose heart was heavy with 
grief, and w^ho counted not the value of his por- 
tion, nor the lack, only longed to see his father's 
face once more. 

Then the new moon came and looked down upon 
them both — the evil son and the son w^ho w^as good. 
And the moon grew to the full — lessened — and 
w^axed old. And in the old of the moon the younger 
son journeyed to the mountain where his poor in- 
heritance lay; to the miserable and barren land 
which was awaiting him. 

His eyes looked with sadness upon it; not be- 
cause of its barrenness, but that it was the last gift 
his father had bestowed upon him. 

His heart swelled with sorrow; and tears which 
scorched and stung flowed down his cheeks as he 



Legend of the China Lily 241 

flung himself on the ground in his grief. He lay 
there long, so long a time he had lost all count of 
the hours, mourning as only they can mourn who 
are true of heart. 

It was a great night, full of stars. A night when 
they burn like fire in the heavens. A band — filmy 
and far — stretched across the arc like the ragged, 
white smoke in the wake of a fast-speeding steamer. 
Meteors shot through the infinite blue-black depth, 
and the vastness of space could be felt, like the 
presence of a thing alive, in the vitalized atmos- 
phere. 

Though he did not raise his head, he was aware 
that something most strange had happened. 
Though hearing no sound, yet he felt near him a 
presence. 

. Then a voice spoke to him from out of the heav- 
ens; and its vibrations fell upon his ear like the 
multitudinous cadence of birds in song. 

''Why weep you?" the voice asked, and he re- 
plied : 

"Because I loved my father and he is dead." 

"Though he is gone hence, he loves you in meas- 
ure now as you have ever loved him, ' ' he heard the 
voice say ; and it sounded like the ringing of silver 
bells. And now his heart bounded within him with 
a great thrill of joy that a father's love was at last 
his. Yet it was in fear and trembling that he asked, 
falter in gly : 

"Even as he loved my brother?" 

"Even as he loved your brother once; but he 
loves not your brother now," the voice of music 
answered him. "The evil bandage across his eyes 
has been removed, and the magic glass is broken. 



242 Pathtvay to Western Literature 

He now sees into his children's hearts with the 
penetrating eye which belongs to the dead, and he 
knows the truth at last. Weep no more ; your 
father sees you — touches you — loves you. And be- 
cause of your faithfulness and loyalty through all 
trials, your reward shall be great. Here, where 
only sterility has been, shall henceforth be bounti- 
ful yield. Never again will the earth here be dry 
and barren ; for your tears have wetted the ground 
so that for a thousand times, a thousand years, a 
generous moisture shall keep the plant-roots health- 
ily growing. The prayers you have breathed here 
for the dead shall ward off all evil from the living 
— from you and the family that will be yours. The 
warmth of your true heart, as it has lain beating 
and breaking here on the earth, shall call forth 
blossoms of unearthly beauty. 

''Dig into the soil, most dutiful of dutiful 
sons, and tell me what it is that you find. ' ' 

And in the starlight the young man began scrap- 
ing with his fingers ; and digging, he found an un- 
known bulb. 

"What is it?'* asked the voice. 

' ' A strange, new kind of root, ' ' he answered ; " I 
do not know its name," and he covered it over 
again with the earth and bits of broken rock. Then 
once more the voice of sweet music spoke : 

' ' Out of the land from whence your father looks 
down on you here these roots came, sent by him in 
his remorseful love; and the flower Avhich grows 
from the root and stalk is called the Flower of 
Filial Affection. Go and come again the third day 
at noon!" 

Then the young man went away. And when, at 



Legend of the Cliina Lily 243 

noontide of the second day, he came again, he was 
amazed, for green shoots had sprung up from 
among the stones that were now wetted with water 
which oozed from the ground. 

The voice he had heard before spoke at his elbow. 

*'Whatseeyou?'* 

And he answered: *'I see the earth rich with 
plant-life where it was barren before." 

''Even as your father now sees the living ever- 
green truth of your soul, where once his blinded 
eyes saw but barrenness ! Mourn no more ; go, now, 
and come again to-morrow, which will be the third 
day, at early morning light when the sun first 
shines here on the mountain." 

At early morning of the third day he came, as 
he was bidden ; and lo ! the air was weighted heavy 
with delicious perfume. It seemed to drop down 
from the heavens and fall, fold upon fold, on the 
earth in inexpressible, ineffable sweetness. 

All about him green plants were in bloom. From 
the root came the plant, and the plant bore a beau- 
tiful flower. From filial love, rooted deep in the 
heart of a man, springs all that is noble and good ; 
and the reward of virtues in a good son shall be 
made manifest. The whole earth seemed to be cov- 
ered over with blossoms of waxen purity — wax- 
white blossoms were about him where he stood, like 
the flowers of heaven that we dream we see under 
the full moon. 

White as snow is white, with a center all yellow 
as gold; sweet as orange flowers, and altogether 
lovely. It was as though a feather from some pass- 
ing angel's wing had fluttered down to fall in the 
mud and mire of a sty. 



244 Pathway to Western Literature 

A cup of ivory with a heart of gold. 

All the world seemed snowed under petals of 
fragrance ; and as he gazed in awe at the wondrous 
beauty of the scene, he shook with the intensity of 
his emotions. Moved to helpless weakness by the 
spirituality of what he saw, he fell upon his knees 
in worship of the great Power that had caused such 
exquisite loveliness to grow, and bowed his fore- 
head on the ground. 

Then, out of the heavenly surroundings, spoke 
the voice. 

''My son," it said, tenderly, and oh! so sweetly; 
and now he recognized the loved accents, for it was 
his father's voice that was speaking — that had 
been speaking since the hour he had first come to 
mourn on the mountain— " Oh, my son — son be- 
loved — once a burden you bore, bore it with un- 
complaining lips. Life has set no greater task for 
a child than to be loyal and loving in the face of 
injustice and misunderstanding. So, for this, your 
reward shall be great. Because of your heart's 
loving loyalty these flowers shall henceforth be 
made sacred to your race, and shall grow only upon 
this land of yours, and in that way be only for 
your family. Nowhere else — east or west, north or 
south — shall they ever be made to grow in the earth 
to the perfection of blossoming; yet here on this 
tear-bedewed land shall they forever thrive, on this 
spot made sacred by your faithfulness. Yours 
shall they be only; yours, and your sons', and your 
sons' sons', through all coming generations. 

*'The bulbs shall grow for you and yours to sell 
— for others to buy; and riches past all counting 
shall be yours. Greater riches will be yours than 



Legend of the China Lily 245 

can ever come to him Avho is your brother. And 
now I go. Even as I love you I bless you; going 
hence to await you in that land from whence these 
white blossoms came. Farewell, beloved child; 
most honorable son, farewell ! ' ' 

And the one who was prostrate on the ground 
raised himself and — though he had seen nothing — 
knew that the presence had gone, and that he was 
alone. But in his heart was comfort and everlast- 
ing peace. 

Only a legend. Only a story made by the fairies 
for children and these simple-minded folk, who 
saw its poetic charm as did I. Only a tale brought 
out of lily-land for those to hear who have the poet- 
hearts of little children. — From *^Land of Purple 
Shadows." 



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